TORC 

S  EWE  1,1      FORD 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

James  J.  McBride 

PRESENTED  BY 

Margaret  McBride 


AJ£L^~ 
7 


' 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 


By   SEWELL   FORD 

TORCHY 

TRYING  OUT  TORCHY 
ON  WITH  TORCHY 
TORCHY,  PRIVATE  SEC. 
WILT  THOU  TORCHY 
THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 


SHORTY  McCABE'S  ODD 
NUMBERS 

SHORTY  McCABE  ON 
THE  JOB 

SHORTY  McCABE  LOOKS 
'EM  OVER 


"'DON'T!'  SAYS  VEE.    'YOU'LL  SPILL  THE  COFKEK.'  " 


THE  HOUSE 
OF  TORCHY 

BY 

SEWELL   FORD 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
ARTHUR  WILLIAM  BROWN 


NEW   YORK 

EDWARD  J.  CLODE 


COFTRISHT,  1917,  1918,  BT 

SEWELL  FORD 


COPYRIGHT,    1018,   BT 

EDWARD  J.  CLODB 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTBR  FAUE 

I  TORCHY  AND  VEE  ON  THE  WAY      .  1 

II  VEE  WITH  VARIATIONS    ... 

HI  A  QUALIFYING  TURN  FOR  TORCHY 

IV  SWITCHING  ARTS  ON  LEON  .        . 

V  A  EECRUIT  FOR  THE  EIGHT-THREE 

VI  TORCHY  IN  THE  GAZINKUS  CLASS 

VII  BACK  WITH  CLARA  BELLE     .       . 

VIII  WHEN  TORCHY  GOT  THE  CALL     . 

IX  A  CARRY-ON  FOR  CLARA        .       . 

X  ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA  .        . 

XI  AT  THE  TURN  WITH  WILFRED      . 

XII  VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP      .       . 

XIII  LATE  RETURNS  ON  RUPERT    .       . 

XIV  FORSYTHE  AT  THE  FlNISH        .          . 

XV  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY       .        . 

XVI  TORCHY  GETS  THE  THUMB  GRIP  . 

XVII  A  Low  TACKLE  BY  TORCHY  .       . 

XVIII  TAG  DAY  AT  TORCHY  's 


104:5283 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

CHAPTER  I 

TOECHT  AND  VEE   ON   THE   WAY 

SAY,  I  thought  I'd  taken  a  sportin'  chance 
now  and  then  before ;  but  I  was  only  kid- 
din '  myself.  Believe  me,  this  gettin'  mar 
ried  act  is  the  big  plunge.  Uh-huh !  Specially 
when  it's  done  offhand  and  casual,  the  way  we 
went  at  it. 

My  first  jolt  is  handed  me  early  in  the  morn- 
in'  as  we  piles  off  the  mountain  express  at 
this  little  flag  stop  up  in  Vermont,  and  a  roly- 
poly  gent  in  a  horse-blanket  ulster  and  a  coon- 
skin  cap  with  a  badge  on  it  steps  up  and  greets 
me  cheerful. 

" Ottasumpsit  Inn?"  says  he. 

"Why,  I  expect  so,"  says  I,  "if  that's  the 
way  you  call  it.  Otto — Otta —  Yep,  that  listens 
something  like  it." 

You  see,  Mr.  Robert  had  said  it  only  once, 


2  THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

when  he  handed  me  the  tickets,  and  I  hadn't 
paid  much  attention. 

"Aye  gorry!"  says  the  chirky  gent,  ga therm' 
up  our  hand  luggage.  "Guess  you're  the  ones 
we're  lookin'  for.  Got  yer  trunk-checks 
handy?" 

With  that  I  starts  fishin'  through  my  pockets 
panicky.  I  finds  a  railroad  folder,  our  marriage 
certificate,  the  keys  to  the  studio  apartment  I'd 
hired,  the  box  the  ring  came  in,  and— 

"Gosh!"  says  I,  sighin'  relieved.  "Sure  I 
got  it." 

The  driver  grins  good-natured  and  stows  us 
into  a  two-seated  sleigh,  and  off  we're  whirled, 
bells  jinglin',  for  half  a  mile  or  so  through  the 
stinging  mornin'  air.  Next  thing  I  know,  I'm 
bein'  towed  up  to  a  desk  and  a  hotel  register  is 
shoved  at  me.  Just  like  an  old-timer,  I  dashes 
off  my  name — Richard  T.  Ballard. 

The  mild-eyed  gent  with  the  close-cropped 
Vandyke  and  the  gold-rimmed  glasses  glances 
over  at  Vee. 

"Ah — er — I  thought  Mrs.  Ballard  was  with 
you?"  says  he. 

"That's  so;  she  is,"  says  I,  grabbin'  the  pen 
again  and  tackin'  "Mr.  and  Mrs."  in  front  of 
my  autograph. 

That's  why,  while  we're  fixin'  up  a  bit  before 


TORCHY  AND  VEE  ON  THE  WAY        3 

goin'  down  to  breakfast,  I  has  this  little  con 
fidential  confab  with  Vee. 

"  It 's  no  use,  Vee, ' '  says  I.  "  I  'm  a  rank  ama 
teur.  We  might  just  as  well  have  rice  and  con 
fetti  all  over  us.  I've  made  two  breaks  already, 
and  I'm  liable  to  make  more.  We  can't  bluff 
'em." 

"Who  wants  to?"  says  Vee.  "I'm  not 
ashamed  of  being  on  my  honeymoon;  are  you?" 

"Good  girl!"  says  I.  "You  bet  I  ain't.  I 
thought  the  usual  line,  though,  was  to  pretend 
you'd " 

* '  I  know, ' '  says  Vee.  *  *  And  I  always  thought 
that  was  perfectly  silly.  Besides,  I  don't  be 
lieve  we  could  fool  anyone  if  we  tried.  It's 
much  simpler  not  to  bother.  Let  them  guess." 

"And  grin  too,  eh?"  says  I.  "We'll  grin 
back." 

Say,  that's  the  happy  hunch.  Leaves  you 
with  nothing  to  worry  about.  All  you  got  to 
do  is  go  ahead  and  enjoy  yourself,  free  and 
frolicsome.  So  when  this  imposin'  head  wait 
ress  with  the  forty-eight  bust  and  the  grand 
duchess  air  bears  down  on  us  majestic,  and  in 
quires  dignified,  "Two,  sir?"  I  don't  let  it 
stagger  me. 

"Two '11  be  enough,"  says  I.  "But  whisper. 
Seem'  as  we're  only  startin'  in  on  the  two- 


4  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

some  breakfast  game,  maybe  you  could  find 
something  nice  and  cheerful  by  a  window. 
Eh?" 

It's  some  breakfast.  M-m-m-m!  Cute  little 
country  sausages,  buckwheat  cakes  that  would 
melt  in  your  mouth,  with  strained  honey  to 
go  on  'em. 

"Have  a  fourth  buckwheat,"  says  I. 

"No  fair,  keeping  count!"  says  Vee.  "I 
looked  the  other  way  when  you  took  your  fifth. ' ' 

Honest,  I  can't  see  where  we  acted  much  dif 
ferent  than  we  did  before.  Somehow,  we  always 
could  find  things  to  giggle  over.  We  sure  had  a 
good  time  takin'  our  first  after-breakfast  stroll 
together  down  Main  Street,  Vee  in  her  silver- 
fox  furs  and  me  in  my  new  mink-lined  over 
coat  that  Mr.  Robert  had  wished  on  me  casual 
just  before  we  left. 

"Cunnin'  little  town,  eh?"  says  I.  "Looks 
like  a  birthday  cake." 

"Or  a  Christmas  card,"  says  Vee.  "Look  at 
this  old  door  with  the  brass  knocker  and  the 
green  fan-light  above.  Isn't  that  Colonial, 
though?" 

"  It 's  an  old-timer,  all  right, ' '  says  I.  ' '  Hello ! 
Here's  a  place  worth  rememberin' — the  Wom 
an's  Exchange.  Now  I'll  know  where  to  go  in 
case  I  should  want  to  swap  you  off." 


TORCHY  AND  VEE  ON  THE  WAY        5 

For  which  crack  I  gets  shoved  into  a  snow 
drift. 

It  ain't  until  afternoon  that  I'm  struck  with 
the  fact  that  neither  of  us  knows  a  soul  up  here. 
Course,  the  landlord  nods  pleasant  to  me,  and 
I'd  talked  to  the  young  room  clerk  a  bit,  and 
the  bell-hops  had  all  smiled  friendly,  specially 
them  I'd  fed  quarters  to.  But  by  then  I  was 
feelin'  sort  of  folksy,  so  I  begun  takin'  notice 
of  the  other  guests  and  plannin'  who  I  should 
get  chummy  with  first. 

I  drifts  over  by  the  fireplace,  where  two  sub 
stantial  old  boys  are  toastin'  their  toes  and 
smokin'  their  cigars. 

' '  Snappy  brand  of  weather  they  pass  out  up 
here,  eh?"  I  throws  off,  pullin'  up  a  rocker. 

They  turn,  sort  of  surprised,  and  give  me  the 
once-over  deliberate,  after  which  one  of  them, 
a  gent  with  juttin'  eyebrows,  clears  his  throat 
and  remarks,  "Quite  bracing,  indeed." 

Then  he  hitches  around  until  I'm  well  out  of 
view,  and  says  to  the  other : 

"As  I  was  observing,  an  immediate  readjust 
ment  of  international  trade  balances  is  inevi 
table.  European  bankers  are  preparing  for  it. 
We  are  not.  Only  last  month  one  of  the  Barings 
cabled " 

I'll  admit  my  next  stab  at  bein'  sociable  was 


6  THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

kind  of  feeble.  In  front  of  the  desk  is  a  group 
of  three  gents,  one  of  'em  not  over  fifty  or  so ; 
but  when  I  edges  up  close  enough  to  hear  what 
the  debate  is  about,  I  finds  it  has  something  to 
do  with  a  scheme  for  revivin'  Italian  opera  in 
Boston,  and  I  backs  off  so  sudden  I  almost 
bumps  into  a  hook-beaked  old  dame  who  is  wad- 
dim'  up  to  the  letter-box. 

" Sorry,"  says  I.    "I  should  have  honked." 

She  just  glares  at  me,  and  if  I  hadn't  side 
stepped  prompt  she  might  have  sunk  that  par 
rot  bill  into  my  shoulder. 

After  that  I  sidles  into  a  corner  where  I 
couldn't  be  hit  from  behind,  and  tries  to  dope 
out  the  cause  of  all  this  hostility.  Did  they 
take  me  for  a  German  spy  or  what?  Or  was 
this  really  an  old  folks'  home  masqueradin'  as 
a  hotel,  with  Vee  and  me  breakin'  in  under 
false  pretenses? 

So  far  as  I  could  see,  the  inmates  was  friendly 
enough  with  each  other.  The  old  girls  sat  around 
in  the  office  and  parlors,  chattin'  over  their 
knittin'  and  crochet.  The  old  boys  paired  off 
mostly,  though  some  of  them  only  read  or 
played  solitaire.  A  few  people  went  out 
wrapped  up  in  expensive  furs  and  was  loaded 
into  sleighs.  The  others  waved  good-by  to  'em. 
But  I  might  have  been  built  out  of  window- 


TOUCHY  AND  VEE  ON  THE  WAY        7 

glass.    They  didn't  act  as  though  I  was  visible. 

"Huh!"  thinks  I.  "I'll  bet  they  take  notice 
of  Vee  when  she  comes  down." 

If  I'd  put  anything  up  on  that  proposition 
I'd  owed  myself  money.  They  couldn't  see  her 
any  more'n  they  could  me.  When  we  went  out 
for  another  walk  nobody  even  looked  after  us. 
I  didn't  say  anything  then,  but  I  kept  thinkin'. 
And  all  that  evenin'  we  sat  around  amongst 
'em  without  bein'  disturbed. 

About  eight  o'clock  an  orchestra  shows  up 
and  cuts  loose  with  music  in  the  ball-room, 
mostly  classic  stuff  like  the  "Spring  Song"  and 
handfuls  plucked  from  "Ai'da."  We  slips  in 
and  listens.  Then  the  leader  gets  his  eye  on  us 
and  turns  on  a  fox-trot. 

"Looks  like  they  was  waitin'  for  us  to  start 
something,"  says  I.  "Let's." 

We'd  gone  around  three  or  four  times  when 
Vee  balks.  About  twenty-five  old  ladies,  with  a 
sprinklin'  of  white-whiskered  old  codgers,  had 
filed  in  and  was  watchin'  us  solemn  and  critical 
from  the  side-lines.  Some  was  squintin'  dis- 
approvin'  through  their  lorgnettes,  and  I  no 
ticed  a  few  whisperin'  to  each  other.  Vee  quits 
right  in  the  middle  of  a  reverse. 

"Do  they  think  we  are  giving  an  exhibition?" 
she  pouts. 


8  THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

''Maybe  we're  breakin'  some  of  the  rules  and 
by-laws, "  says  I.  "Anyway,  I  think  we  ought 
to  beat  it  before  they  call  in  the  high  sheriff. ' ' 

Next  day  it  was  just  the  same.  We  was  out 
part  of  the  time,  indulgin'  in  walks  and  sleigh 
rides;  but  nobody  seemed  to  see  us,  goin'  or 
comin'.  And  I  begun  to  get  good  and  sore. 

"Nice  place,  this,"  says  I  to  Vee,  as  we  trails 
in  to  dinner  that  evenin'.  "Almost  as  sociable 
as  the  Grand  Central  station." 

Vee  tries  to  explain  that  it's  always  like  this 
in  these  exclusive  little  all-the-year-round  joints 
where  about  the  same  crowd  of  people  come 
every  season. 

* '  Then  you  have  to  be  born  in  the  house  to  be 
a  reg'lar  person,  I  suppose?"  says  I. 

Well,  it's  about  then  I  notices  this  classy 
young  couple  who  are  makin'  their  way  across 
the  dinin'-room,  bein'  hailed  right  and  left. 
And  next  thing  I  know,  the  young  lady  gets 
her  eye  on  Vee,  stops  to  take  another  look,  then 
rushes  over  and  gives  her  the  fond  clinch  from 
behind. 

"Why  you  dear  old  Verona!"  says  she. 

"Judith!"  gasps  Vee,  kind  of  smothery. 

1 '  Whatever  are  you  doing  up ' '  And  then 

Judith  gets  wise  to  me  sittin'  opposite.  "Oh!" 
says  she. 


TORCHY  AND  VEE  ON  THE  WAY        9 

Vee  blushes  and  exhibits  her  left  hand. 

"It  only  happened  the  other  night,"  says  she. 
"This  is  Mr.  Ballard,  Judith.  And  you?" 

"Oh,  ages  ago — last  spring,"  says  Judith. 
"Bert,  come  here." 

It 's  a  case  of  old  boardin '-school  friends  who  'd 
lost  track  of  each  other.  Quite  a  stunner,  young 
Mrs.  Nixon  is,  too,  and  Bert  is  a  good  match  for 
her.  The  two  girls  hold  quite  a  reunion,  with 
us  men  standin'  around  lookin'  foolish. 

"We're  living  in  Springfield,  you  know," 
goes  on  Judith,  "where  Bert  is  helping  to  build 
another  munition  plant.  Just  ran  up  to  spend 
the  week-end  with  Auntie.  You've  met  her,  of 
course?" 

"We — we  haven't  met  anyone,"  says  Vee. 

"Why,  how  funny!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Nixon. 
"Please  come  over  right  now." 

"My  dear,"  says  Auntie,  pattin'  Vee  chummy 
on  the  hand,  "we  have  all  been  wondering  who 
you  two  young  people  were.  I  knew  you  must 

be  nice,  but — er Come,  won't  you  join  us 

at  this  table?  We'll  make  just  a  splendid  little 
family  party.  Now  do ! " 

Oh,  yes,  we  did.  And  after  dinner  I'll  be 
hanged  if  we  ain't  introduced  to  almost  every 
body  in  the  hotel.  It's  a  reg'lar  reception,  with 
folks  standin'  in  line  to  shake  hands  with  us. 


10  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

The  old  boy  with  the  eye  awnin's  turns  out  to 
be  an  ex-Secretary  of  the  Treasury;  an  antique 
with  a  patent  ear- 'phone  has  been  justice  of 
some  State  Supreme  Court ;  and  so  on.  Oh,  lots 
of  class  to  'em.  But  after  I'd  been  vouched  for 
by  someone  they  knew  they  all  gives  me  the 
hearty  grip,  offers  me  cigars,  and  hopes  I'm 
enjoyin'  my  stay. 

"And  so  you  are  a  niece  of  dear  Mrs.  Hem- 
mingway?"  says  old  Parrot-Face,  when  her 
turn  comes.  "  Think  of  that !  And  this  is  your 
husband!"  And  then  she  says  how  nice  it  is 
that  some  other  young  people  will  be  up  in  the 
mornin'. 

That  evenin'  Judith  gets  busy  plannin'  things 
to  do  next  day. 

"You  haven't  tried  the  toboggan  chute?"  says 
she.  "Why,  how  absurd!" 

Yep,  it  was  a  big  day,  Saturday  was.  Half  a 
dozen  more  young  folks  drifted  in,  includin'  a 
couple  of  Harvard  men  that  Vee  knew,  a  girl 
she'd  met  abroad,  and  another  she'd  seen  at  a 
house-party.  They  was  all  live  wires,  too,  ready 
for  any  sort  of  fun.  And  we  had  all  kinds. 
Maybe  we  didn't  keep  that  toboggan  slide  warm. 
Say,  it's  some  sport,  ain't  it? 

Anyway,  our  honeymoon  was  turnin'  out  a 
great  success.  The  Nixons  concluded  to  stay 


TORCHY  AND  VEE  ON  THE  WAY      11 

over  a  few  days,  and  three  or  four  of  the  others 
found  they  could  too,  so  we  just  went  on  whoop 
ing  things  up. 

Next  I  knew  we  'd  been  there  a  week,  and  was 
due  to  make  a  jump  to  Washington  for  a  few 
days  of  sight-seem '. 

"I'm  afraid  that  will  not  be  half  as  nice  as 
this  has  been,"  says  Vee. 

' ' It  couldn 't, ' '  says  I.  "It '&  the  reg 'lar  thing 
to  do,  though." 

"I  hate  doing  the  regular  thing,"  says  Vee. 
"Besides,  I'm  dying  to  see  our  little  studio 
apartment  and  get  settled  in  it.  Why  not- 
well,  just  go  home?" 

"Vee,"  says  I,  "you  got  more  good  sense 
than  I  have  red  hair.  Let's!" 


CHAPTER  II 

VEE   WITH   VARIATIONS 

"Bui — but  look  here,  Vee,"  says  I,  after  I'd 
got  my  breath  back,  "you  can't  do  a  thing  like 
that,  you  know." 

"But  I  have,  Torchy,"  says  she;  "and,  what 
is  more,  I  mean  to  keep  on  doing  it." 

She  don't  say  it  messy,  understand — just 
states  it  quiet  and  pleasant. 

And  there  we  are,  hardly  at  the  end  of  our 
first  month,  with  the  rocks  loomin'  ahead. 

Say,  where  did  I  collect  all  this  bunk  about 
gettin'  married,  anyway?  I  had  an  idea  that 
after  the  honeymoon  was  over,  you  just  settled 
down  and  lived  happy,  or  otherwise,  ever  after. 
But,  believe  me,  there's  nothing  to  it.  It  ain't 
all  over,  not  by  a  long  shot.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  you've  just  begun  to  live,  and  you  got  to 
learn  how. 

Here  I  am,  discoverin'  a  new  Vee  every  day 
or  so,  and  almost  dizzy  tryin'  to  get  acquainted 
with  all  of  'em.  Do  I  show  up  that  way  to  her! 


VEE  WITH  VARIATIONS  13 

I  doubt  it.  Now  and  then,  though,  I  catch  her 
watchin'  me  sort  of  puzzled. 

So  there's  nothing  steady  goin'  or  settled 
about  us  yet,  thanks  be.  Home  ain't  a  place  to 
yawn  in.  Not  ours.  "We  don't  get  all  our  excite 
ment  out  of  changin'  the  furniture  round,  either. 
Oh,  sure,  we  do  that,  too.  You  know,  we're 
startin'  in  with  a  ready-made  home — a  studio 
apartment  that  Mr.  Robert  picked  up  for  me  at 
a  bargain,  all  furnished. 

He  was  a  near-artist,  if  you  remember,  this 
Waddy  Crane  party,  who'd  had  a  bale  of  cou- 
pon-bearin'  certificates  willed  to  him,  and  what 
was  a  van-load  of  furniture  more  or  less  to 
him?  Course,  I'm  no  judge  of  such  junk, 
but  Vee  seems  to  think  we've  got  something 
swell. 

"Just  look  at  this  noble  old  davenport,  will 
you!"  says  she.  "Isn't  it  a  beauty!  And  that 
highboy!  Real  old  San  Domingo  mahogany 
that  is,  with  perfectly  lovely  crotch  veneer  in 
the  panels.  See?" 

"Uh-huh,"  says  I. 

"And  this  four-poster  with  the  pineapple 
tops  and  the  canopy,"  she  goes  on.  "Pure 
Colonial,  a  hundred  years  old." 

"  Eh  ? "  say s  I,  gazin '  at  it  doubtful.  '  <  Course, 
I  was  lookin'  for  second-hand  stuff,  but  I  don't 


14  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

think  he  ought  to  work  off  anything  that  ancient 
on  me,  do  you?" 

* '  Silly ! ' '  says  Vee.  "  It 's  a  gem,  and  the  older 
the  better." 

"We'll  need  some  new  rugs,  won't  we,"  says 
I,  "in  place  of  some  of  these  faded  things!" 

"Faded!"  says  Vee.  "Why,  those  are  Bok- 
haras.  I  will  say  for  Mr.  Crane  that  he  has 
good  taste.  This  is  furnished  so  much  better 
than  most  studios — nothing  useless,  no  mixing 
of  periods." 

"Oh,  when  I  go  out  after  a  home,"  says  I, 
"I'm  some  grand  little  shopper." 

"  Pooh ! "  says  Vee.  "  Who  couldn  't  do  it  the 
way  you  did?  Why,  the  place  looks  as  if  he'd 
just  taken  his  hat  and  walked  out.  There  are 
even  cigars  in  the  humidor.  And  his  easel  and 
paints  and  brushes!  Do  you  know  what  I'm 
going  to  do,  Torchy?" 

"Put  pink  and  green  stripes  around  the 
cigars,  I  expect,"  says  I. 

"Smarty!"  says  she.  "I'm  going  to  paint 
pictures." 

*  *  Why  not  ? ' '  says  I.  *  *  There 's  no  law  against 
it,  and  here  you  got  all  the  tools." 

"You  know  I  used  to  try  it  a  little,"  says 
she.  "I  took  quite  a  lot  of  lessons." 

"Then  go  to  it,"  says  I.    "I'll  get  a  yearly 


VEE  WITH  VARIATIONS  15 

rate  from  a  pressing  club  to  keep  the  spots  off 
me.  I'll  bet  you  could  do  swell  pictures." 

"I  know!"  says  Vee,  clappin'  her  hands. 
"I'll  begin  with  a  portrait  of  you.  Let  me  try 
sketching  in  your  head  now." 

That's  the  way  Vee  generally  goes  at  things — 
with  a  rush.  Say,  she  had  me  sittin'  with  my 
chin  up  and  my  arms  draped  in  one  position 
until  I  had  a  neck-ache  that  ran  clear  to  my 
heels. 

"Hal-lup!"  says  I,  when  both  feet  was  sound 
asleep  and  my  spine  felt  ossified.  "Couldn't  I 
put  on  a  sub  while  I  drew  a  long  breath?" 

At  that  she  lets  me  off,  and  after  a  fifth- 
innin'  stretch  I'm  called  round  to  pass  on  the 
result. 

"Hm-m-m!"  says  I,  starin'  at  what  she's  done 
to  a  perfectly  good  piece  of  stretched  canvas. 

"Well,  what  does  it  look  like?"  demands  Vee. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "I  should  call  it  sort  of  a 
cross  between  the  Kaiser  and  Billy  Sunday." 

"Torchy!"  says  Vee.  "I — I  think  you're 
just  horrid ! ' ' 

For  a  whole  week  she  sticks  to  it  industrious, 
jottin'  down  studies  of  various  parts  of  my 
map  while  I'm  eatin'  breakfast,  and  workin' 
over  'em  until  I  come  back  from  the  office  in  the 
afternoon.  Did  I  throw  out  any  more  comic 


16  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

cracks?  Never  a  one — not  even  when  the  pic 
ture  showed  that  my  eyes  toed  in.  All  I  did  was 
pat  her  on  the  back  and  say  she  was  a  wonder. 
But  say,  I  got  so  I  dreaded  to  look  at  the  thing. 

"You  know  your  hair  isn't  really  red,"  says 
Vee;  "it — it's  such  an  odd  shade." 

"Sort  of  triple  pink,  eh?"  says  I. 

She  squeezes  out  some  more  paints,  stirs  'em 
vigorous,  and  makes  another  stab.  This  time 
she  gets  a  bilious  lavender  with  streaks  of  fire 
box  red  in  it. 

"Bother!"  says  she,  chuckin'  away  the 
brushes.  "What's  the  use  pretending  I'm  an 
artist  when  I'm  not?  Look  at  that  hideous 
mess!  It's  too  awful  for  words.  Take  away 
that  fire-screen,  will  you,  Torchy?" 

And,  with  the  help  of  a  few  matches  and  a 
sportin'  extra,  we  made  quite  a  cheerful  little 
blaze  in  the  coal  grate. 

"There!"  says  Vee,  as  we  watches  the  bon 
fire.  "So  that's  over.  And  it's  rather  a  relief 
to  find  out  that  I  haven't  got  to  be  a  lady  artist, 
after  all.  What  is  more,  I  am  positive  I  couldn't 
write  a  book.  I'm  afraid,  Torchy,  that  I  am  a 
most  every-day  sort  of  person." 

"Maybe,"  says  I,  "you're  one  of  the  scarce 
ones  that  believes  in  home  and  hubby." 

"We-e-e-ell,"  says  Vee,  lockin'  her  fingers 


VEE  WITH  VARIATIONS  17 

and  restin'  her  chin  on  'em  thoughtful,  "not 
precisely  that  type,  either.  My  mind  may  not  be 
particularly  advanced,  but  the  modified  harem 
existence  for  women  doesn't  appeal  to  me.  And 
I  must  confess  that,  with  kitchenette  breakfasts, 
dinners  out,  and  one  maid,  I  can't  get  wildly 
excited  over  a  wholly  domestic  career.  Torchy, 
I  simply  must  have  something  to  do." 

Me,  I  just  sits  there  gawpin'  at  her. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "I  thought  that  when  a  girl 
got  married  she — she " 

* '  I  know, ' '  says  she.  ' '  You  think  you  thought. 
So  did  I.  But  you  really  didn't  think  about  it 
at  all,  and  I'm  only  beginning  to.  Of  course, 
you  have  your  work.  I  suppose  it's  interesting, 
too.  Isn't  it?" 

"It's  a  great  game,"  says  I.  "Specially 
these  days,  when  doin'  any  kind  of  business  is 
about  as  substantial  as  jugglin'  six  china  plates 
while  you're  balanced  on  top  of  two  chairs  and 
a  kitchen  table.  Honest,  we  got  deals  enough 
in  the  air  to  make  you  dizzy  followin'  'em.  If 
they  all  go  through  we'll  stand  to  cut  a  melon 
that  would  pay  off  the  national  debt.  If  they 
should  all  go  wrong — well,  it  would  be  some 
smash,  believe  me." 

Vee's  gray  eyes  light  up  sudden. 

"Why  couldn't  you  tell  me  all  about  some  of 


18  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

these  deals,"  she  says,  "so  that  I  could  be  in  it 
too  ?  Why  couldn '  t 1  help  ? '  ' 

"Maybe  you  could,"  says  I,  "if  you  under 
stood  all  the  fine  points." 

"Couldn't  I  learn?"  demands  Vee. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "I've  been  right  in  the  thick 
of  it  for  quite  some  years.  If  you  could 
pick  up  in  a  week  or  so  what  it's  taken  me 
years  to— 

"I  see,"  cuts  in  Vee.  "I  suppose  you're 
right,  too.  But  I'm  sure  that  I  should  like  to  be 
in  business.  It  must  be  fascinating,  all  that 
planning  and  scheming.  It  must  make  life  so 
interesting." 

I  nods.    "It  does,"  says  I. 

"Then  why  shouldn't  I  try  something  of  the 
kind,  all  my  very  own?"  she  asks.  "Oh,  in  a 
small  way,  at  first?" 

More  gasps  from  me.  This  was  gettin' 
serious. 

"You  don't  mean  margin  dabblin'  at  one  of 
them  parlor  bucket-shops,  do  you?"  I  demands. 

"No  fear,"  says  Vee.  "I  think  gambling  is 
just  plain  stupid.  I  mean  some  sort  of  legiti 
mate  business — buying  and  selling  things." 

"  Oh ! "  says  I.  *  *  Like  real  estate,  or  imported 
hats,  or  somebody's  home-made  candy?  Or 
maybe  you  mean  startin'  one  of  them  Blue 


VEE  WITH  VARIATIONS  19 

Goose  novelty  shops  down  in  Greenwich  Vil 
lage.  I'll  tell  you.  "Why  not  manufacture  left- 
handed  collar  buttons  for  the  south-paw  trade? 
There's  a  field." 

Vee  don't  say  any  more.  In  fact,  three  or 
four  days  goes  by  without  her  mentionin'  any 
thing  about  bavin'  nothing  to  do,  and  I'd  'most 
forgot  this  batty  talk  of  ours. 

And  then,  one  afternoon  when  I  comes  home 
after  a  busy  day  at  doin'  nothing  much  and  try- 
in'  to' look  important  over  it,  she  greets  me  with 
a  flyin'  tackle  and  drags  me  over  to  a  big  wing- 
chair  by  the  window. 

"What  do  you  think,  Torchyf"  says  she. 
"I've  found  something!" 

"That  trunk  key  you've  been  lookin'  for?" 
says  I. 

"No,"  says  she.    "A  business  opening." 

"A  slot-machine  to  sell  fudge!"  says  I. 

"You'd  never  guess,"  says  she. 

"Then  shoot  it,"  says  I. 

"I'm  going  to  open  a  shoe-shinery,"  she  an 
nounces. 

"Wha-a-a-at!"  says  I. 

"Only  I'm  not  going  to  call  it  that,"  she  goes 
on.  "It  isn't  to  be  a  'parlor,'  either,  nor  a 
'shine  shop.'  It's  to  be  just  a  'Boots.'  Eight 
here  in  the  building.  I've  leased  part  of  the 


20  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

basement.  See?"  And  she  waves  a  paper  at 
me. 

"Quit  your  kiddin',"  says  I. 

But  she  insists  that  it's  so.  Sure  enough, 
that's  the  way  the  lease  reads. 

And  that's  when,  as  I  was  tellin'  you,  I  rises 
up  majestic  and  announces  flat  that  she  simply 
can't  do  a  thing  like  that.  Also  she  comes  back 
at  me  just  as  prompt  by  sayin'  that  she  can  and 
will.  It's  the  first  time  we've  met  head-on  goin' 
different  ways,  and  I  had  just  sense  enough  to 
throw  in  my  emergency  before  the  crash  came. 

"Now  let's  get  this  straight,"  says  I.  "I 
don't  suppose  you're  plannin'  to  do  shoe-shinin' 
yourself?" 

Vee  smiles  and  shakes  her  head. 

"Or  'tend  the  cash  register  and  sell  shoe 
laces  and  gum  to  gentlemen  customers?" 

"Oh,  it's  not  to  be  that  sort  of  place,"  says 
she.  "It's  to  be  an  English  'boots,'  on  a  large 
scale.  You  know  what  I  mean." 

"No,"  says  I. 

So  she  sketches  out  the  enterprise  for  me.  In 
stead  of  a  reg'lar  Tony  joint  with  a  row  of 
chairs  and  a  squad  of  blue-shirted  Greeks  jab- 
berin'  about  the  war,  this  is  to  be  a  chairless, 
spittoonless  shine  factory,  where  the  customer 
only  steps  in  to  sign  a  monthly  contract  or  regis- 


VEE  WITH  VARIATIONS  21 

ter  a  kick.  All  the  work  is  to  be  collected  and 
delivered,  same  as  laundry. 

"I  would  never  have  thought  of  it,"  explains 
Vee,  "if  it  hadn't  been  for  Tarkins.  He's  that 
pasty-faced,  sharp-nosed  young  fellow  who's 
been  helping  the  janitor  recently.  A  cousin,  I 
believe.  He's  a  war  wreck,  too.  Just  think, 
Torchy :  he  was  in  the  trenches  for  more  than  a 
year,  and  has  only  been  out  of  a  base  hospital 
two  months.  They  wouldn't  let  him  enlist 
again;  so  he  came  over  here  to  his  relatives. 

"It  was  while  he  was  up  trying  to  stop  that 
radiator  leak  the  other  day  that  I  asked  him  if 
he  would  take  out  a  pair  of  my  boots  and  find 
some  place  where  they  could  be  cleaned.  He 
brought  them  back  inside  of  half  an  hour,  beau 
tifully  done.  And  when  I  insisted  on  being  told 
where  he'd  taken  them,  so  that  I  might  send 
them  to  the  same  place  again,  he  admitted  that 
he  had  done  the  work  himself.  'My  old  job, 
ma'am,'  says  he.  'I  was  boots  at  the  Argyle 
Club,  ma'am,  before  I  went  out  to  strafe  the 
'Uns.  Seven  years,  ma  'am.  But  they  got  a  girl 
doin'  it  now,  a  flapper.  Wouldn't  take  me  back/ 
Just  fancy !  And  Tarkins  a  trench  hero !  So  I 
got  to  thinking. ' ' 

"I  see,"  says  I.  "You're  going  to  set  Tar 
kins  up,  eh?" 


22  THE  HOUSE  OF  TOKCHY 

"I'm  going  to  make  him  my  manager,"  says 
Vee.  "He  will  have  charge  of  the  shop  and 
solicit  orders.  We  are  going  to  start  with  only 
two  polishers ;  one  for  day  work,  the  other  for 
the  night  shift.  And  Tarkins  will  always  be  on 
the  job.  They're  installing  a  'phone  now,  and 
he  will  sleep  on  a  cot  in  the  back  office.  We 
will  work  this  block  first,  something  like  four 
hundred  apartments.  Later  on — well,  we'll 
see." 

"I  don't  want  to  croak,"  says  I,  "but  do  you 
think  folks  will  send  out  their  footwear  that 
way?  You  know,  New  Yorkers  ain't  used  to 
gettin'  their  shines  except  on  the  hoof." 

"I  mean  to  educate  them  to  my  'boots'  sys 
tem,"  says  Vee.  "I'm  getting  up  a  circular 
now.  I  shall  show  them  how  much  time  they 
can  save,  how  many  tips  they  can  avoid.  You 
see,  each  customer  will  have  a  delivery  box,  with 
his  name  and  address  on  it.  No  chance  for  mis 
takes.  The  boxes  can  be  set  outside  the  apart 
ment  doors.  We  will  have  four  collections,  per 
haps  ;  two  in  the  daytime,  two  at  night.  And 

when  they  see  the  kind  of  work  we  do Well, 

you  wait." 

"I'll  admit  it  don't  listen  so  worse,"  says  I. 
"The  scheme  has  its  good  points.  But  when 
you  come  to  teachin'  New  York  people  new 


VEE  WITH  VAKIATIONS  23 

tricks,  like  sendin'  out  their  shoes,  you're  goin' 
to  be  up  against  it." 

''Then  you  think  I  can't  make  'boots'  pay  a 
profit!"  asks  Vee. 

"That  would  be  my  guess,"  says  I.  "If  it 
was  a  question  of  underwritin'  a  stock  issue  for 
the  scheme  I'd  have  to  turn  it  down." 

"Good!"  says  Vee.  "Now  I  shall  work  all 
the  harder.  Tarkins  will  be  around  early  in  the 
morning  to  get  you  as  our  first  customer." 

Say,  for  the  next  few  days  she  certainly  was 
a  busy  party — plannin'  out  her  block  campaign, 
lookin'  over  supply  bills,  and  checkin'  up  Tar- 
kins 's  reports. 

I  don't  know  when  I'd  ever  seen  her  so  inter 
ested  in  anything,  or  so  chirky.  Her  cheeks 
were  pink  all  the  time  and  her  eyes  dancin'. 
And  somehow  we  had  such  a  lot  to  talk  about. 

Course,  though,  I  didn't  expect  it  to  last.  You 
wouldn't  look  for  a  girl  like  Vee,  who'd  never 
had  any  trainin'  for  that  sort  of  thing,  to  start 
a  new  line  and  make  a  go  of  it  right  off  the  bat. 
But,  so  long  as  she  wasn't  investin'  very  heavy, 
it  didn't  matter. 

And  then,  here  last  night,  after  she'd  been 
workin'  over  her  account-books  for  an  hour  or 
.so,  she  comes  at  me  with  a  whoop,  and  waves 
a  sheet  of  paper  under  my  nose  excited. 


24  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Now,  Mister  Business  Man,"  says  she, 
"what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"Eh?"  says  I,  starin'  at  the  figures. 

"One  hundred  and  seventeen  regular  cus 
tomers  the  first  week,"  says  she,  "and  a  net 
profit  of  $23.45.  Now  how  about  underwriting 
that  stock  issue?" 

Well,  it  was  a  case  of  backin'  up.  She  had  it 
all  figured  out  plain.  She  'd  made  good  from  the 
start.  And,  just  to  prove  that  it's  real  money 
that  she's  made  all  by  herself,  she  insists  on  in- 
vitin'  me  out  to  a  celebration  dinner.  It's  a 
swell  one,  too,  take  it  from  me. 

And  afterwards  we  sits  up  until  long  past 
midnight  while  Vee  plans  a  chain  of  "boots"  all 
over  the  city. 

"Gee!"  says  I.  "Maybe  you'll  be  gettin' 
yourself  written  up  as '  The  Shine  Queen  of  New 
York'  or  something  like  that.  Lucky  Auntie's 
in  Jamaica.  Think  what  a  jolt  it  would  give 
her." 

"I  don't  care,"  says  Vee.  "I've  found  a 
job." 

"Guess  you  have,"  says  I.  "And,  as  I've 
remarked  once  or  twice  before,  you're  some 
girl." 


CHAPTER  III 

A   QUALIFYING   TURN   FOE   TOECHY 

AND  here  all  along  I'd  been  kiddin'  myself 
that  I  was  a  perfectly  good  private  sec.  Also 
I  had  an  idea  the  Corrugated  Trust  was  one  of 
the  main  piers  that  kept  New  York  from  slump- 
in'  into  the  North  River,  and  that  the  boss,  Old 
Hickory  Ellins,  was  sort  of  a  human  skyscraper 
who  loomed  up  as  imposin'  in  the  financial  fore 
ground  as  the  Metropolitan  Tower  does  on  the 
picture  post-cards  that  ten-day  trippers  mail  to 
the  folks  back  home. 

Not  that  I'd  been  workin'  up  any  extra  chest 
measure  since  I've  had  an  inside  desk  and  had 
connected  with  a  few  shares  of  our  preferred 
stock;  I  always  did  feel  more  or  less  that  way 
about  our  concern.  And  the  closer  I  got  to  things, 
seein'  how  wide  our  investments  was  scattered 
and  how  many  big  deals  we  stood  behind,  the 
surer  I  was  that  we  was  important  people. 

And  then,  in  trickles  this  smooth-haired  young 
gent  with  the  broad  &'s  and  the  full  set  of  the 
dansant  manners,  to  show  me  where  I'm 

25 


26  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

wrong  on  all  counts.  He'd  succeeded  in  con- 
vincin'  Vincent-on-the-gate  that  nobody  around 
the  shop  would  do  but  Mr.  Ellins  himself,  so 
here  was  Old  Hickory  standin'  in  the  door  of 
his  private  office  with  the  card  in  his  hand  and 
starin'  puzzled  at  this  immaculate  symphony  in 
browns. 

"Eh?"  says  he.  "You're  from  Runyon,  are 
you?  Well,  I  wired  him  to  stop  off  on  his  way 
through  and  have  luncheon  with  me  at  the  Union 
League.  Know  anything  about  that,  do  you?" 

"Mr.  Runyon  regrets  very  much,"  says  the 
young  gent,  "that  he  will  be  unable  to  accept 
your  kind  invitation.  He  is  on  his  way  to  New 
port,  you  know,  and— 

"Yes,  I  understand  all  that,"  breaks  in  Old 
Hickory.  ' '  Daughter 's  wedding.  But  that  isn  't 
until  next  week,  and  while  he  was  in  town  I 
thought  we  might  have  a  little  chat  and  settle  a 
few  things. ' ' 

"Quite  so,"  says  the  symphony.  "Precisely 
why  he  sent  me  up,  sir — to  talk  over  anything 
you  might  care  to  discuss." 

' '  With  you ! "  snorts  Old  Hickory.  ' « Who  the 
brocaded  buckboards  are  you?" 

"Mr.  Runyon 's  secretary,  sir,"  says  the 
young  gent.  "Bixby's  the  name,  sir,  as  you 
will  see  by  the  card,  and " 


4 '  Ha ! "  growls  old  Hickory.  * '  So  that 's  Marc 
Runyon's  answer  to  me,  is  it?  Sends  his  secre 
tary  !  Very  well ;  you  may  talk  with  my  secre 
tary.  Torchy ! ' ' 

"Eight  here!"  says  I,  slidin'  to  the  front. 

"Take  this  person  somewhere,"  says  Mr. 
Ellins,  jerkin'  his  thumb  at  Bixby;  "instruct 
him  what  to  tell  his  master  about  how  we  regard 
that  terminal  hold-up;  then  dust  him  off  care 
fully  and  lead  him  to  the  elevator." 

"Got  you!"  says  I,  salutin'. 

You  might  think  that  would  have  jolted  Mr. 
Bixby.  But  no.  He  gets  the  door  shut  in  his 
face  without  even  blinkin'  or  gettin'  pink  under 
the  eyes.  Don't  even  indulge  in  any  shoulder 
shrugs  or  other  signs  of  muffled  emotion.  He 
just  turns  to  me  calm  and  remarks  business 
like: 

"At  your  service,  sir." 

Now,  say,  this  lubricated  diplomacy  act  ain't 
my  long  suit  as  a  general  thing,  but  I  couldn't 
figure  a  percentage  in  puttin'  over  any  more 
rough  stuff  on  Bixby.  It  rolled  off  him  too  easy. 
Course,  it  might  be  all  right  for  Mr.  Ellins  to  get 
messy  or  blow  a  gasket  if  he  wanted  to ;  but  I 
couldn't  see  that  it  was  gettin'  us  anywhere. 
He  hadn't  planned  this  luncheon  affair  just  for 
the  sake  of  being  sociable — I  knew  that  much. 


28  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

The  big  idea  was  to  get  next  to  Marcus  T.  Run- 
yon  and  thresh  out  a  certain  proposition  on  a 
face-to-face  basis.  And  if  he  chucked  that  over 
board  because  of  a  whim,  we  stood  to  lose. 

It  was  up  to  me  now,  though.  Maybe  I  could 
n't  be  as  smooth  as  this  Bixby  party,  but  I 
could  make  a  stab  along  that  line.  It  would  be 
good  practice,  anyhow.  So  I  tows  him  over  to 
my  corner,  and  arranges  him  easy  in  an  arm 
chair. 

"As  between  private  sees,  now,"  says  I, 
"what's  puttin'  up  the  bars  on  this  get-together 
motion,  eh  I" 

Well,  considerin'  that  Bixby  is  English  and 
don't  understand  the  American  language  very 
well,  we  got  along  fine.  Once  or  twice,  there,  I 
thought  I  should  have  to  call  in  an  interpreter ; 
but  by  bein'  careful  to  state  things  simple,  and 
by  goin'  over  some  of  the  points  two  or  three 
times  slow,  we  managed  to  make  out  what  each 
other  meant. 

It  seems  that  Marcus  T.  is  more  or  less  of  a 
frail  and  tender  party.  Dashin'  out  for  a  Union 
League  luncheon,  fillin'  himself  up  on  poulet 
en  casserole  and  such  truck,  not  to  mention  Mar 
tinis  and  demi-tasses  and  brunette  perfectos, 
was  clean  out  of  the  question. 

"My  word!"  says  Bixby,  rollin'  his  eyes. 


QUALIFYING  TURN  FOR  TORCHY     29 

< 'His    physician    would    never    allow    it,    you 
know." 

"Suppose  he  took  a  chance  and  didn't  tell 
the  doc?"  I  suggests. 

"Impossible,"  says  Bixby.  "He  is  with  him 
constantly — travels  with  him,  you  understand." 

I  didn't  get  it  all  at  first,  but  I  sopped  it  up 
gradual.  Marcus  T.  wasn't  takin'  any  casual 
fiit  from  his  Palm  Beach  winter  home  to  his 
Newport  summer  place.  No  jumpin'  into  a  com 
mon  Pullman  for  him,  joinin'  the  smokin'-room 
bunch,  and  scrabblin'  for  his  meals  in  the  diner. 
Hardly. 

He  was  travelin'  in  his  private  car,  with  his 
private  secretary,  his  private  physician,  his 
trained  nurse,  his  private  chef,  and  most  likely, 
his  private  bootblack.  And  he  was  strictly 
under  his  doctor's  orders.  He  wasn't  even 
goin'  to  have  a  peek  at  Broadway  or  Fifth 
Avenue ;  for,  although  a  suite  had  been  engaged 
for  him  at  the  Plutoria,  the  Doc  had  ruled 
against  it  only  that  mornin'.  No;  he  had  to 
stay  in  the  private  car,  that  had  been  run  on  a 
special  sidin'  over  in  the  Pennsylvania  yards. 

"So  you  see,"  says  Bixby,  spreadin'  out  his 
varnished  finger-nails  helpless.  "And  yet,  I 
am  sure  he  would  very  much  like  to  have  a  chat 
with  his  old  friend  Mr.  Ellins." 


30  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

I  had  all  I  could  do  to  choke  back  a  haw-haw. 
His  old  friend,  eh  I  Oh,  I  expect  they  might  be 
called  friends,  in  a  way.  They  hadn't  actually 
stuck  any  knives  into  each  other.  And  'way 
back,  when  they  was  both  operatin'  in  Chicago, 
I  understand  they  was  together  a  good  deal. 

But  since Well,  maybe  at  a  circus  you've 

seen  a  couple  of  old  tigers  pacin'  back  and  forth 
in  nearby  cages  and  catchin'  sight  of  one  an 
other  now  and  then!  Something  like  that. 

''Friend"  wasn't  the  way  Marcus  T.  was  in 
dexed  on  our  books.  If  we  spotted  any  sus 
picious  moves  in  the  market,  or  found  one  of  our 
subsidiary  companies  being  led  astray  by  un 
seen  hands,  or  a  big  contract  slippin'  away 
mysterious,  the  word  was  alw,ays  passed  to 
"watch  the  Runyon  interests."  And  I'll  admit 
that  when  the  Corrugated  saw  an  openin'  to  put 
a  crimp  in  a  Runyon  deal,  or  overbid  'em  on  a 
franchise,  or  crack  a  ripe  egg  on  one  of  their 
bond  issues,  we  only  waited  long  enough  for  it 
to  get  dark  before  gettin'  busy.  Oh,  yes,  we  was 
real  chummy  that  way. 

And  then  again,  with  the  Runyon  system 
touchin'  ours  in  so  many  spots,  we  had  a  lot  of 
open  daylight  dealin's.  We  interlocked  here 
and  there;  we  had  joint  leases,  trackage 
agreements,  and  so  on,  where  we  was  just  as 


QUALIFYING  TURN  FOR  TORCHY    31 

trustin'  of  each  other  as  a  couple  of  gentlemen 
crooks  dividin'  the  souvenirs  after  an  early 
mornin'  call  at  a  country-house. 

This  terminal  business  Old  Hickory  had  men 
tioned  was  a  sample.  Course,  I  only  knew  about 
it  in  a  vague  sort  of  way :  something  about  ore 
docks  up  on  the  Lakes.  Anyway,  it  was  a  case 
where  the  Runyon  people  had  hogged  the  water 
front  and  was  friskin'  us  for  tonnage  charges  on 
every  steamer  we  loaded. 

I  know  it  was  something  that  had  to  be  re 
newed  annual,  for  I'd  heard  Mr.  Ellins  beefin' 
about  it  more'n  once.    Last  year,  I  remember, 
he  was  worse  than  usual,  which  was  accounted 
for  later  by  the  fact  that  the  ton  rate  had  been 
jumped  a  couple  of  cents.    And  now  it  had  been 
almost  doubled.    No  wonder  he  wanted  a  con 
fab  with  Marcus  T.  on  the  subject.    And,  from 
where  I  stood,  it  looked  like  he  ought  to  have 
it,  grouch  or  no  grouch. 

I 1  Bixby, ' '  says  I, ' '  Mr.  Ellins  would  just  grieve 
himself  sick  if  this  reunion  he's  planned  don't 
come  off.    Now,  what's  the  best  you  can  do?" 

"If  Mr.  Ellins  could  come  to  the  private 
car "  begins  Bixby. 

"Say."  I  breaks  in,  "you  wouldn't  ask  him 
to  climb  over  freight-cars  and  dodge  switch- 
engines  just  for  old  times'  sake,  would  you?" 


32 

Bixby  holds  up  both  hands  and  registers  pain 
ful  protest. 

"By  no  means,"  says  he.  "We  would  send 
the  limousine  for  Mr.  Ellins,  have  it  wait  his 
convenience,  and  drive  him  directly  to  the  car 
steps.  I  think  I  can  arrange  the  interview  for 
any  time  between  two-thirty  and  four  o'clock 
this  afternoon." 

"Now,  that's  talkin'!"  says  I.  "I'll  see 
what  I  can  do  with  the  boss.  Wait,  will  you?" 

Oh,  boy,  though!  That  was  about  as  tough 
a  job  as  I  ever  tackled.  Old  Hickory  still  has 
his  neck  feathers  ruffled,  and  he's  chewin'  sav 
age  on  a  black  cigar  when  I  go  in  to  slip  him 
the  soothin'  syrup.  First  off  I  explains  elabo 
rate  what  a  sick  man  Mr.  Runyon  is,  and  all 
about  the  trained  nurse  and  the  private  physi 
cian. 

' '  Bah ! "  say s  Old  Hickory.  "  I  '11  bet  he 's  no 
more  an  invalid  than  I  am.  Just  coddling  him 
self,  that's  all.  Got  the  private  car  habit,  too! 
Why,  I  knew  Marc  Runyon  when  he  thought  an 
upper  berth  was  the  very  lap  of  luxury;  knew 
him  when  he'd  grind  his  teeth  over  payin'  a  ten- 
dollar  fee  to  a  doctor.  And  now  he's  trying  to 
buy  back  his  digestion  by  hiring  a  private 
physician,  is  he!  The  simple-minded  old 
sinner!" 


QUALIFYING  TURN  FOR  TORCHY  33 

"I  expect  you  ain't  seen  much  of  him  lately, 
Mr.  Ellins!"  I  suggests. 

Old  Hickory  hunches  his  shoulders  careless. 

"No,"  says  he. 

Then  he  gazes  reminiscent  at  the  ceilin'.  I 
could  tell  by  watchin'  his  lower  jaw  sort  of 
loosen  up  that  he  was  thinkin'  of  the  old  days, 
or  something  like  that.  It  struck  me  as  a  good 
time  to  let  things  simmer.  I  drops  back  a  step 
and  waits.  All  of  a  sudden  he  turns  to  me  and 
demands : 

"Well,  son?" 

"If  you  could  get  away  about  three,"  says  I, 
"Mr.  Runyon's  limousine  will  be  waiting." 

"Huh!"  says  he.    "Well,  I '11  see.    Perhaps." 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  I.  "Then  you'll  be  wanting 
the  dope  on  that  terminal  lease.  Shall  I  dig 
it  up?" 

"Oh,  you  might  as  well,"  says  Old  Hickory. 
"There  isn't  much,  but  bring  along  anything 
you  may  find.  You  will  have  to  serve  as  my 
entire  retinue,  Torchy.  I  expect  you  to  behave 
like  a  regular  high-toned  secretary." 

"Gee!"  says  I.  "That's  some  order.  Mr. 
Bixby'll  have  me  lookin'  like  an  outside  porter. 
But  I'll  go  wind  myself  up." 

All  I  could  think  of,  though,  was  to  post  my 
self  on  that  terminal  stuff.  And,  believe  me,  I 


34  THE  HOUSE  OF  TOKCHY 

waded  into  that  strong.  Inside  of  ten  minutes 
after  I'd  sent  Bixby  on  his  way  I  had  Piddie 
clawin '  through  the  record  safe,  two  stenograph 
ers  searchin'  the  letter-files,  and  Vincent  out 
buyin'  maps  of  Lake  Superior.  I  had  about  four 
hours  to  use  in  gettin'  wise  to  the  fine  points  of 
a  deal  that  had  been  runnin'  on  for  ten  years; 
but  I  can  absorb  a  lot  of  information  in  a  short 
time  when  I  really  get  my  mind  pores  open. 

At  that,  though,  I  expect  my  head  would  have 
been  just  a  junk-heap  of  back-number  facts  if  I 
hadn't  run  across  the  name  of  this  guy  McClave 
in  some  of  the  correspondence.  Seems  he'd 
been  assistant  traffic  agent  for  one  of  the  Run- 
yon  lines,  but  had  been  dropped  durin'  a  con 
solidation  shake-up.  And  now  he  happens  to  be 
holdin'  down  a  desk  out  in  our  general  offices. 
Just  on  a  chance,  I  pushes  the  button  for  him. 

Well,  say,  talk  about  tappin'  the  main  feed 
pipe!  Why,  that  quiet  little  Scotchman  in  the 
shiny  black  cutaway  coat  and  the  baggy  plaid 
trousers,  he  knew  more  about  how  iron  ore  gets 
from  the  mines  to  the  smelters  than  I  do  about 
puttin'  on  my  own  clothes.  And  as  for  the  in 
side  hist'ry  of  how  we  got  that  tonnage  charge 
wished  onto  us,  why,  McClave  had  been  called 
in  when  the  merry  little  scheme  was  first  plotted 
out. 


QUALIFYING  TURN  FOB  TORCHY    35 

I  made  him  start  at  the  beginning  and  explain 
every  item,  while  we  munched  fried-egg  sand 
wiches  as  we  went  over  reports,  sorted  out  old 
letters,  and  marked  up  a  perfectly  good  map  of 
Minnesota.  But  by  three  P.M.  I  had  a  leather 
document  case  stuffed  with  papers  and  a  cross- 
index  of  'em  in  my  so-called  brain. 

"When  you're  ready,  Mr.  Ellins,"  says  I, 
standin'  by  with  my  hat  in  my  hand. 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  he,  heavin'  himself  up  reluc 
tant  from  his  desk  chair. 

And,  sure  enough,  there's  a  silk-lined  limou 
sine  and  a  French  chauffeur  waitin'  in  front  of 
the  arcade.  In  no  time  at  all,  too,  we're  rolled 
across  Seventh  Avenue,  down  through  a  tunnel, 
and  out  alongside  a  shiny  private  car  with  a 
brass-bound  bay-window  on  one  end  and  flower- 
boxes  hung  on  the  side.  They  even  had  a  car 
pet  laid  on  the  steps.  It's  a  happy  little  home 
on  wheels. 

Also  there  is  Bixby  the  Busy,  with  his  ear  out 
for  us. 

Talk  about  private  seccing  as  a  fine  art! 
Why,  say,  I  fairly  held  my  breath  watchin'  him 
operate.  Every  move  is  as  smooth  and  silent 
as  a  steel  lathe  runnin'  in  an  oil  bath.  He  don't 
exactly  whisper,  or  give  us  the  hush-up  sign, 
but  somehow  he  gets  me  steppin'  soft  and  talk- 


36  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

in*  under  my  breath  from  the  minute  I  hits  the 
front  vestibule. 

"So  good  of  you,  Mr.  Ellins,"  he  coos  sooth- 
in'.  "Will  you  come  right  in!  Mr.  Runyon 
will  be  with  you  in  a  moment.  Just  finishing  a 
treatment,  you  know.  This  way,  gentlemen." 

Say,  it  was  like  bein'  ushered  into  church 
durin'  the  prayer.  Once  inside,  you'd  never 
guess  it  was  just  a  car.  More  like  the  corner  of 
a  perfectly  good  drawin'-room — easy  chairs, 
Turkish  rugs,  silver  vases  full  of  roses,  double 
hangings  at  the  windows. 

"Will  you  sit  here,  Mr.  Ellins  I"  murmurs 
Bixby.  "And  you  here,  sir.  Pardon  me  a  mo 
ment." 

Then  he  glides  about,  pullin'  down  a  shade, 
movin'  a  vase,  studyin'  how  the  light  is  goin' 
to  strike  in,  pattin'  a  cushion,  shovin'  out  a  foot- 
rest — like  he  was  settin'  the  stage  for  the  big 
scene.  And  right  in  the  midst  of  it  I  near 
spilled  the  beans  by  pullin'  an  afternoon  edition 
out  of  my  pocket.  Bixby  swoops  down  on  me 
panicky. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!"  says  he,  pluckin'  the 
paper  out  of  my  fingers.  "But  may  I  put  this 
outside?  Mr.  Runyon  cannot  stand  the  rustling 
of  newspapers.  Please  don't  mind.  There! 
Now  I  think  we  are  ready." 


QUALIFYING  TURN  FOE  TORCHY     37 

I  wanted  to  warn  him  that  I  hadn't  quite 
stopped  breathin'  yet,  but  he's  off  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  where  a  nurse  in  a  white  cap 
is  peekin'  through  the  draperies. 

Bixby  nods  to  her  and  stands  one  side.  Then 
we  waits  a  minute — two  minutes.  And  finally 
the  procession  appears. 

First,  a  nurse  carryin'  a  steamer  rug;  next, 
another  nurse  with  a  tray;  and  after  them  a 
valet  and  the  private  physician  with  the  great 
Marcus  T.  walkin'  slow  between. 

He  ain't  so  imposin'  when  you  get  that  close, 
though.  Kind  of  a  short,  poddy  party,  who 
looks  like  he'd  been  upholstered  generous  once 
but  had  shrunk  a  lot.  There  are  heavy  bags 
under  his  eyes,  dewlaps  at  his  mouth-corners, 
and  deep  seams  across  his  clean-shaved  face. 
He  has  sort  of  a  cigar-ash  complexion.  And 
yet,  under  them  shaggy  brows  is  a  keen  pair  of 
eyes  that  seem  to  take  in  everything. 

Old  Hickory  gets  up  right  off,  with  his  hand 
out.  But  it's  a  social  error.  Bixby  blocks  him 
off  graceful.  He's  in  full  command,  Bixby  is. 
With  a  one-finger  gesture  he  signals  the  nurse 
to  drape  her  rug  over  the  chair.  Then  he  nods 
to  the  doctor  and  the  valet  to  go  ahead.  They 
ease  Runyon  into  his  seat.  Bixby  motions  'em 
to  wrap  up  his  knees.  By  an  eyelid  flutter 


38  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

he  shows  the  other  nurse  where  to  set  her 
tray. 

It's  almost  as  complicated  a  process  as  dock- 
in'  an  ocean  liner.  When  it's  finished,  Bixby 
waves  one  hand  gentle,  and  they  all  fade  back 
through  the  draperies. 

1 1  Hello,  Ellins, ' '  says  Runyon.  * '  Mighty  good 
of  you  to  hunt  up  a  wreck  like  me." 

I  almost  gasped  out  loud.  Somehow,  after 
seein'  him  handled  like  a  mummy  that  way,  you 
didn't  expect  to  hear  him  speak.  It's  a  shock. 
Even  Old  Hickory  must  have  felt  something  as 
I  did. 

"I— I  didn't  know,"  says  he.  "When  did  it 
happen,  Runyonf" 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  says  Marcus  T.  "I  am 
merely  paying  up  for  fifty-odd  years  of  hard 
living  by — by  this.  Ever  try  to  exist  on  arti 
ficial  sour  milk  and  medicated  hay,  Ellins? 
Hope  you  never  come  to  it.  Don't  look  as 
though  you  would.  But  you  were  always 
tougher  than  I,  even  back  in  the  State  Street 
days,  eh?" 

First  thing  I  knew,  they  were  chattin'  away 
free  and  easy.  Course,  there  was  Bixby  all  the 
time,  standin'  behind  watchful.  And  right  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence  he  didn't  hesitate  to 
butt  in  and  hand  Mr.  Runyon  a  glass  of  what 


QUALIFYING  TURN  FOR  TORCHY     39 

looked  like  thin  whitewash.  Marcus  T.  would 
take  a  sip  obedient  and  then  go  on  with  his  talk. 
At  last  he  asks  if  there's  anything  special  he 
can  do  for  Mr.  Ellins. 

"Why,  yes,"  says  Old  Hickory,  settin'  his 
jaw.  "You  might  call  off  your  highwaymen  on 
that  Manitou  terminal  lease,  Runyon.  That  is, 
unless  you  mean  to  take  all  of  our  mining 
profits." 

Marcus  T.'s  eyes  brighten  up.  They  almost 
twinkle. 

"Bixby,"  says  he,  "what  about  that?  Has 
there  been  an  increase  in  the  tonnage  rate  to  the 
Corrugated?" 

"I  think  so,  sir,"  says  Bixby.  "I  can  look  it 
up,  sir." 

"Ah!"  says  Runyon.  "Bixby  will  look  it 
up." 

"He  needn't,"  says  Old  Hickory.  "It's  been 
doubled,  that's  all.  We  had  the  notice  last  week. 
Torchy,  did  you— 

"Yep!"  says  I,  shootin'  the  letter  at  him. 

"Well,  well!"  says  Runyon,  after  he's  gazed 
at  it.  "There  must  have  been  some  well 
founded  cause  for  such  an  advance.  Bixby,  you 
must " 

"It's  because  you  think  you've  got  us  in  a 
hole,"  breaks  in  Old  Hickory.  "We've  got 


40 

to  load  our  boats  and  you  control  the 
docks." 

"Oh,  yes!"  chuckles  Marcus  T.  "An  unfor 
tunate  situation — for  you.  But  I  presume  there 
are  other  dockage  facilities  available." 

"If  there  were,"  says  Mr.  Ellins  sarcastic, 
"  do  you  think  we  would  be  paying  you  from 
three  to  five  millions  a  year?" 

"Bixby,  I  fear  you  must  explain  our  position 
more  fully,"  goes  on  Mr.  Runyon. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  says  Bixby.  "I  will  have  a 
full  report  prepared  and " 

"Suppose  you  tell  it  to  my  secretary  now," 
insists  Old  Hickory,  glarin'  menacin'  at 
him. 

"Do  so,  Bixby,"  says  Marcus  T. 

"Why — er — you  see,"  says  Bixby,  turnin'  to 
me,  "as  I  understand  the  case,  the  only  outlet 
you  have  to  deep  water  is  over  our  tracks 
to " 

"What  about  them  docks  at  Three  Har 
bors?"  I  cuts  in. 

"Three  Harbors?"  repeats  Bixby,  starin' 
vague. 

1 ' Precisely, ' '  says  Marcus  T.  "As  the  young 
man  suggests,  there  is  plenty  of  unemployed 
dockage  at  that  point.  But  your  ore  tracks  do 
not  connect  with  that  port." 


QUALIFYING  TUEN  FOR  TORCHY    41 

"They  would  if  we  laid  forty  miles  of  rails, 
branchin'  off  at  Tamarack  Junction,"  says  I. 
"That  spur  has  all  been  surveyed  and  the  right 
of  way  cleared." 

"Ah!"  exclaims  Bixby,  comin'  to  life  again. 
"I  remember  now.  Tamarack  Junction.  We 
hold  a  charter  for  a  railroad  from  there  to  Three 
Harbors." 

"You  mean  you  did  hold  it,"  says  I. 

"I  beg  pardon?"  says  Bixby,  gawpin'. 

"It  lapsed,"  says  I,  "eighteen  months  ago. 
Here's  a  copy,  0.  K.'d  by  a  Minnesota  notary 
public.  See  the  date?" 

"Allow  me,"  says  Mr.  Runyon,  reachin'  for 
it. 

Old  Hickory  gets  up  and  rubbers  over  his 
shoulder.  "By  George!  "  says  he.  "It  has 
lapsed,  Runyon.  Torchy,  where 's  a  map 
of " 

"Here  you  are,"  says  I.  "You'll  see  the 
branch  line  sketched  in  there.  That  would  cut 
our  haul  about  fifteen  miles." 

"And  leave  you  with  a  lot  of  vacant  ore  docks 
on  your  hands,  eh,  Runyon?"  puts  in  Old  Hick 
ory.  "We  could  have  those  rails  laid  by  the 
time  the  ice  was  out  of  the  Soo.  Well,  well! 
Throws  rather  a  new  light  on  the  situation, 
doesn't  it?" 


42  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

Marcus  T.  turns  slow  and  fixes  them  keen 
eyes  of  his  on  Bixby  the  Busy. 

1 '  Hm-m-m ! ' '  says  he.  * '  It  seems  that  we  have 
overlooked  a  point,  Bixby.  Perhaps,  though, 
you  can  offer " 

He  can.    Some  shifty  private  sec,  Bixby  is. 

1  'Your  milk,  sir,"  says  he,  grabbin'  the  tray 
and  shovin'  it  in  front  of  Runyon. 

For  a  second  or  so  the  great  Marcus  T.  eyes 
it  indignant.  Then  his  shoulders  sag,  the  fire 
dies  out  of  his  eyes,  and  he  takes  the  glass. 

He's  about  the  best  trained  plute  I  ever  saw 
in  captivity. 

"And  I  think  the  doctor  should  take  your  tem 
perature  now,"  adds  Bixby.  "I  will  call  him." 

As  he  slips  off  toward  the  back  end  of  the  car 
Mr.  Runyon  lets  out  a  sigh. 

''It's  no  use,  Ellins,"  says  he.  "One  can't 
pamper  a  ruined  digestion  and  still  enjoy  these 
friendly  little  business  bouts.  One  simply  can 't. 
Name  your  own  terms  for  continuing  that  ter 
minal  lease." 

Old  Hickory  does  prompt,  for  we  don't  want 
to  buy  rails  at  the  price  they're  bringin' 
now. 

"And  by  the  way,  Runyon,"  says  he,  "may  I 
ask  what  you  pay  your  young  man?  I'm  just 
curious." 


QUALIFYING  TURN  FOR  TORCHY    43 

"Bixby?"  says  Runyon.  "Oh,  twenty-five 
hundred. ' ' 

"Huh!"  says  Mr.  Ellins.  "My  secretary 
forgets  my  milk  now  and  then,  but  he  remem 
bers  such  trifles  as  lapsed  charters.  He  is  draw 
ing  three  thousand." 

I  hope  Marcus  T.  didn't  hear  the  gasp  I  lets 
out — I  tried  to  smother  it.  And  the  first  thing 
I  does  when  we  gets  back  into  the  limousine  is 
to  grin  at  the  boss. 

"Whaddye  mean,  three  thousand!"  says  I. 

"Dollars,"  says  he.    "Beginning  to-day." 

"Z-z-z-zing!"  says  I.  "Going  up,  up!  And 
there  I  was  plannin'  to  take  a  special  course  in 
trained  nursin',  so  I  could  hold  my  job." 


CHAPTER  IV 

SWITCHING  AKTS   ON   LEON 

OH,  sure!  We're  coming  along  grand.  Did 
you  think  we'd  be  heavin'  the  blue  willow- ware 
at  each  other  by  this  time  ?  No.  We  've  hardly 
displayed  any  bef ore-breakfast  dispositions  yet. 

Not  that  we  confine  ourselves  to  the  coo  vo 
cabulary,  or  advertise  any  continuous  turtle 
dove  act.  Gettin'  married  ain't  jellied  our 
brains,  I  hope.  Besides,  we're  busy.  I've  got  a 
new  gilt-edged  job  to  fill,  you  know;  and  Vee, 
she  has  one  of  her  own,  too. 

Well,  I  can't  say  that  her  scheme  of  runnin' 
a  Boots,  Limited,  has  mesmerized  all  New  York 
into  havin'  its  shoe-shinin'  done  out.  There's 
something  about  this  cloth  top  and  white  gaiter 
craze  that's  puttin'  a  crimp  in  her  perfectly 
good  plans.  But  she's  doin'  fairly  well,  and  she 
don't  have  to  think  up  ways  of  killin'  time. 

Course,  we  have  a  few  other  things  to  think 
about,  too.  Just  learnin'  how  to  live  in  New 
York  is  a  merry  little  game  all  by  itself.  That 's 

44 


SWITCHING  ARTS  ON  LEON        45 

one  of  my  big  surprises.  I'd  thought  all  along 
it  was  so  simple. 

But  say,  we've  been  gettin'  wise  to  a  few 
facts  this  last  month  or  so,  for  we've  been  tryin' 
to  dope  out  which  one  of  the  forty-nine  varieties 
of  New  York's  home-sweet-home  repertoire  was 
the  kind  for  us.  I  don't  mean  we've  been 
changin'  our  street  number,  or  testin'  out  dif 
ferent  four-room-and-bath  combinations.  The 
studio  apartment  I  got  at  a  bargain  suits  first 
rate.  It's  the  meal  proposition. 

First  off,  we  decides  gay  and  reckless  that 
we'll  breakfast  and  lunch  in  and  take  our  din 
ners  out.  That  listened  well  and  seemed  easy 
enough — until  Vee  got  to  huntin'  up  a  two- 
handed,  light-footed  female  party  who  could  boil 
eggs  without  scorchin'  the  shells,  dish  up  such 
things  as  canned  salmon  with  cream  sauce,  and 
put  a  few  potatoes  through  the  French  fry 
process,  doublin'  in  bed-makin'  and  dust-chasm ' 
durin'  her  spare  time.  That  shouldn't  call  for 
any  prize-winnin'  graduate  from  a  cookin'  col 
lege,  should  it? 

But  say,  the  specimens  that  go  in  for  general 
housework  in  this  burg  are  a  sad  lot.  I  ain't 
goin'  all  through  the  list.  I'll  just  touch  lightly 
on  Bertha. 

She  was  a  cheerful  soul,  even  when  she  was 


46  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

servin'  soggy  potatoes  or  rappin'  me  in  the  ear 
with  her  elbow  as  she  reached  across  to  fill  my 
water  glass. 

11  He-he!  Haw-haw!  Oxcuse,  Mister,"  was 
Bertha's  repartee  for  such  little  breaks. 

Course,  I  could  plead  with  her  for  the  ump 
teenth  time  to  try  pourin'  from  the  button  hand 
side,  but  it  would  have  been  simpler  to  have 
worn  a  head  guard  durin'  meals. 

And  who  would  have  the  heart  to  put  the  ban 
on  a  yodel  that  begins  in  our  kitchenette  at  7 
A.M.,  even  on  cloudy  mornin's? 

If  Bertha  had  been  No.  1,  or  even  No.  2,  she'd 
have  had  her  passports  handed  her  about  the 
second  mornin';  but,  as  she  was  the  last  of  a 
punk  half  dozen,  we  tried  not  to  mind  her  musi 
cal  interludes.  So  at  the  end  of  three  weeks  her 
friendly  relations  with  us  were  still  unbroken, 
though  most  of  the  dishes  were  otherwise. 

So  you  might  have  thought  we'd  been  glad, 
when  6.30  P.M.  came,  to  put  on  our  things  and 
join  about  a  million  or  so  other  New  Yorkers 
in  nndin'  a  dinner  joint  where  the  cooks  and 
waiters  made  no  claim  to  havin'  an  amateur 
standin'. 

But,  believe  me,  while  my  domestic  instincts 
may  be  sproutin'  late,  they're  comin'  strong. 
I'm  beginnin'  to  yearn  for  nourishment  that  I 


SWITCHING  ARTS  ON  LEON        47 

don't  have  to  learn  the  French  for  or  pick  off 'm 
a  menu.  I'd  like  to  eat  without  bein'  surrounded 
by  three-chinned  female  parties  with  high  blood 
pressure,  or  bein'  stared  at  by  pop-eyed  old 
sports  who 're  givin'  some  kittenish  cloak  model 
a  bright  evenin'.  And  Vee  feels  more  or  less 
the  same  way. 

" Besides,"  says  she,  "I  wish  we  could  enter 
tain  some  of  our  friends." 

"Just  what  I  was  wishin',"  says  I.  "Say, 
couldn't  we  find  a  few  simple  things  in  the  cook 
book  that  Bertha  couldn't  queer?" 

''Such  as  canned  baked  beans  and  celery1?" 
asks  Vee,  chucklin'.  "And  yet,  if  I  stood  by 
and  read  the  directions  to  her — who  knows  f ' ' 

"Let's  try  her  on  the  Piddies,"  I  suggests. 

Well,  we  did.  And  if  the  potatoes  had  been 
cooked  a  little  more  and  the  roast  a  little  less,  it 
wouldn't  have  been  so  bad.  The  olives  were  all 
right,  even  if  Bertha  did  forget  to  serve  'em 
until  she  brought  in  the  ice  cream.  But  then, 
the  Piddies  are  used  to  little  slips  like  that, 
havin'  lived  so  long  out  in  Jersey. 

"You  see,"  explains  Vee  to  me  afterwards, 
"Bertha  was  a  bit  flurried  over  her  first  dinner 
party.  She  isn't  much  used  to  a  gas  oven, 
either.  Don 't  you  think  we  might  try  another  f ' ' 

*  *  Sure ! ' '  says  I.   * '  What  are  friends  for,  any- 


48  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

way?  How  about  askin'  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert 
Ellins!" 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighs  Vee,  lookin'  scared.  Then 
she  is  struck  with  a  bright  idea.  "I'll  tell  you : 
we  will  rehearse  the  next  one  the  night  before. ' ' 

"Atta  girl!"  says  I.    "Swell  thought." 

It  was  while  she  and  Bertha  was  strugglin' 
over  the  cook-book,  and  gettin'  advice  from 
various  sources,  from  housekeepin'  magazines 
to  the  janitor's  wife,  that  this  Leon  Battou 
party  shows  up  with  his  sob  hist'ry. 

1 '  Oh,  Torchy ! ' '  Vee  hails  me  with,  as  I  come 
home  from  the  office  here  the  other  evenin'. 
"What  becomes  of  people  when  they're  dispos 
sessed — when  they're  put  out  on  the  street  with 
their  things,  you  know?" 

"Why,"  says  I,  "they  generally  stay  out  un 
til  they  can  find  a  place  where  they  can  move 
in.  Has  anybody  been  threatenin'  to  chuck  us 
out  for  not " 

"Silly!"  says  she.     "It's  the  Battous." 

"Don't  know  'em,"  says  I. 

"But  surely,"  goes  on  Vee,  "you've  seen 
him.  He's  that  funny  little  old  Frenchman 
who 's  always  dodging  in  and  out  of  the  elevator 
with  odd-looking  parcels  under  his  arm." 

* '  Oh,  yes ! ' '  says  I.  ' '  The  one  with  the 
twinklin'  eyes  and  the  curly  iron-gray  hair,  who 


SWITCHING  ARTS  ON  LEON        49 

always  bows  so  polite  and  shoots  that  bon-shure 
stuff  at  you.  Him?" 

It  was. 

It  seems  the  agent  had  served  notice  on  'em 
that  mornin'.  They'd  been  havin'  a  grand  pow 
wow  over  it  in  the  lower  vestibule,  when  Vee 
had  come  along  and  got  mixed  up  in  the  debate. 
She'd  seen  Mrs.  Battou  doin'  the  weep  act  on 
hubby's  shoulder  while  he  was  tryin'  to  explain 
and  makin'  all  sorts  of  promises.  I  expect  the 
agent  had  heard  such  tales  before.  Anyway, 
he  was  kind  of  rough  with  'em — at  which  Vee 
had  sailed  in  and  told  him  just  what  she  thought. 

"I'm  sure  you  would  have  done  the  same, 
Torchy,"  says  she. 

"I  might,"  says  I,  "if  he  hadn't  been  too 
husky.  But  what  now?" 

"I  told  them  not  to  worry  a  bit,"  says  Vee, 
' '  and  that  when  you  came  home  you  would  tell 
them  what  to  do.  You  will,  won't  you, 
Torchy?" 

Course,  there  was  only  one  real  sensible  an 
swer  to  that.  Who  was  I,  to  step  in  casual  and 
ditch  a  court  order?  But  say,  when  the  only 
girl  in  the  universe  tackles  you  with  the  clingin' 
clinch,  hints  that  you're  a  big,  brainy  hero  who 
can  handle  any  proposition  that's  batted  up  to 
you — well,  that's  no  time  to  be  sensible. 


50  THE  HOUSE  OF  TOKCHY 

"I'll  do  any  foolish  little  thing  you  name," 
says  I. 

1 '  Goody ! ' '  says  Vee.  ' '  I  just  knew  you  would. 
We'll  go  right  up  and— 


<  t 


EJust  a  sec,"  says  I.  "Maybe  I'd  better 
have  a  private  talk  with  this  Mr.  Battou  first 
off.  Suppose  you  run  up  and  jolly  the  old  lady 
while  he  comes  down  here." 

She  agrees  to  that,  and  three  minutes  later 
I've  struck  a  pose  which  is  sort  of  a  cross  be 
tween  that  of  a  justice  of  the  supreme  court 
and  a  bush  league  umpire,  while  M.  Leon  Battou 
is  sittin'  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  opposite,  con- 
versin'  rapid  with  both  hands  and  a  pair  of  elo 
quent  eyebrows. 

"But  consider,  monsieur,"  he's  sayin'. 
"Only  because  of  owing  so  little !  Can  they  not 
wait  until  I  have  found  some  good  customers 
for  my  paintings  1 ' ' 

"Oh!    Then  you're  an  artist,  are  you?" 

"I  have  the  honor,"  says  he.  "I  should  be 
pleased  to  have  you  inspect  some  of  my " 

"It  wouldn't  help  a  bit,"  says  I.  "All  I 
know  about  art  is  that  as  a  rule  it  don't  pay. 
Don't  you  do  anything  else?" 

He  hunches  his  shoulders  and  spreads  out 
both  hands. 

"It  is  true,  what  you  say  of  art,"  he  goes 


on.  "And  so  then  I  must  do  the  decorating 
of  walls — the  wreaths  of  roses  on  the  ceiling. 
That  was  my  profession  when  we  lived  at  Pe- 
ronne.  But  here — there  is  trouble  about  the 
union.  The  greasy  plumber  will  not  work  where 
I  am,  it  seems.  Eh  bien!  I  am  forced  out.  So 
I  return  to  my  landscapes.  Are  there  not  many 
rich  Americans  who  pay  well  for  such  things  ! ' ' 

I  waves  him  back  into  his  chair. 

"How'd  you  come  to  wander  so  far  from  this 
Peronne  place!"  says  I. 

"It  was  because  of  our  son,  Henri,"  says  he. 
"You  see,  he  preferred  to  be  as  my  father  was, 
a  chef.  I  began  that  way,  too.  The  Battous 
always  do — a  family  of  cooks.  But  I  broke 
away.  Henri  would  not.  He  became  the  pastry 
chef  at  the  Hotel  Gaspard  in  Peronne.  And 
who  shall  say,  too,  that  he  was  not  an  artist  in 
his  way?  Yes,  with  a  certain  fame.  At  least, 
they  heard  here,  in  New  York.  You  would  not 
believe  what  they  offered  if  he  would  leave 
Peronne.  And  after  months  of  saying  no  he  said 
yes.  It  was  true.  They  paid  as  they  promised — 
more.  So  Henri  sends  for  us  to  come  also.  We 
found  him  living  like  a  prince.  Truly!  For 
more  than  three  years  we  enjoyed  his  good  for 
tune. 

"And  then — la  guerre!    Henri  must  go  to- 


52  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

join  his  regiment.  True,  he  might  have  stayed. 
But  we  talked  not  of  that.  It  was  for  France. 
So  he  went,  not  to  return.  Ah,  yes !  At  Ypres, 
after  only  three  months  in  the  trenches.  Then 
I  say  to  the  little  mother,  'Courage!  I,  Leon 
Battou,  am  still  a  painter.  The  art  which  has 
been  as  a  pastime  shall  be  made  to  yield 
us  bread.  You  shall  see.'  Ah,  I  believed — 
then." 

"Nothing  doing,  eh?"  says  I. 

Battou  shakes  his  head. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "the  surest  bet  just  now 
would  be  to  locate  some  wall-frescoin'.  I'll  see 
what  can  be  done  along  that  line." 

"Ah,  that  is  noble  of  you,  young  man,"  ex 
claims  Battou.  "It  is  wonderful  to  find  such  a 
friend.  A  thousand  thanks!  I  will  tell  the 
little  mother  that  we  are  saved." 

With  that  he  shakes  me  by  both  hands,  gives 
me  a  bear  hug,  and  rushes  off. 

Pretty  soon  Vee  comes  down  with  smiles  in 
her  eyes. 

"I  just  knew  you  would  find  a  way,  Torchy," 
says  she.  "You  don't  know  how  happy  you've 
made  them.  Now  tell  me  all  about  it." 

And  say,  I  couldn't  convince  her  I  hadn't 
done  a  blamed  thing  but  shoot  a  little  hot  air, 
not  after  I'd  nearly  gone  hoarse  explaining. 


SWITCHING  ARTS  ON  LEON        53' 

"Oh,  but  you  will,"  says  she.  "You'll  do 
something. ' ' 

Who  could  help  tryin',  after  that?  I  tackles 
the  agent  with  a  proposition  that  Battou  should 
work  out  the  back  rent,  but  he's  a  fish-eyed 
gink. 

"Say,"  he  growls  out  past  his  cigar,  "if  we 
tried  to  lug  along  every  panhandling  artist  that 
wanted  to  graft  rent  off  us,  we'd  be  in  fine  shape 
by  the  end  of  the  year,  wouldn't  we?  Forget  it." 

"How  about  his  art  stuff?"  I  asks  Vee,  when 
I  got  back. 

"Oh,  utterly  hopeless,"  says  she.  "But  one 
can't  tell  him  so.  He  doesn't  know  how  bad  it 
is.  I  suppose  he  is  all  right  as  a  wall  decorator. 
Do  you  know,  Torchy,  they  must  be  in  serious 
straits.  Those  two  little  rooms  of  theirs  are 
almost  bare,  and  I'm  sure  they've  been  living 
on  cheese  and  crackers  for  days.  What  do  you 
think  I've  done?" 

"Sent  'em  an  anonymous  ham  by  parcels 
post!"  says  I. 

"No,"  says  Vee.  "I'm  going  to  have  them 
down  to-night  for  the  rehearsal  dinner." 

"Pine  dope!"  says  I.  "And  if  they  survive 
bein'  practiced  on— 

But  Vee  has  skipped  off  to  the  kitchenette 
without  waitin'  to  hear  the  rest. 


54  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Is  this  to  be  a  reg'lar  dress  rehearsal!"  I 
asks,  when  I  comes  home  again.  "Should  I  doll 
up  regardless?" 

Yes,  she  says  I  must.  I  was  just  strugglin' 
into  my  dinner  coat,  too,  when  the  bell  rings. 
I  expect  Vee  had  forgot  to  tell  'em  that  six- 
forty-five  was  our  reg'lar  hour.  And  say,  M. 
Leon  was  right  there  with  the  boulevard  cos 
tume — peg-top  trousers,  fancy  vest,  flowin'  tie, 
and  a  silk  tile.  As  for  Madame  Battou,  she's  all 
in  gray  and  white. 

I'd  towed  'em  into  the  studio,  and  was  havin' 
'em  shed  their  things,  when  Vee  bounces  in  out 
of  the  kitchenette  and  announces  impetuous : 

"Oh,  Torchy!  We've  made  a  mess  of  every 
thing.  That  horrid  leg  of  lamb  won't  do  any 
thing  but  sozzle  away  in  the  pan;  the  string- 
beans  have  been  scorched ;  and — oh,  goodness ! ' ' 

She'd  caught  sight  of  our  guests. 

"Please  don't  mind,"  says  Vee.  "We're  not 
very  good  cooks,  Bertha  and  I.  We — we've 
spoiled  everything,  I  guess." 

She's  tryin'  to  be  cheerful  over  it.  And  she 
sure  is  a  picture,  standin'  there  with  a  big  apron 
coverin'  up  most  of  her  evenin'  dress,  and  her 
upper  lip  a  bit  trembly. 

"Buck  up,  Vee,"  says  I.  "Better  luck  next 
time.  Chuck  the  whole  shootin'  match  into  the 


SWITCHING  ARTS  ON  LEON        55 

discards,  and  we'll  all  chase  around  to  Roverti's 
and " 

* '  Bother  Roverti  's ! "  breaks  in  Vee.  *  '  Can 't 
we  ever  have  a  decent  dinner  in  our  own  home  ? 
Am  I  too  stupid  for  that0?  And  there's  that  per 
fectly  gug-good  1-1-1-leg  of — of— 

' 'Pardon,"  says  M.  Battou,  steppin'  to  the 
front;  "but  perhaps,  if  you  would  permit,  I 
might  assist  with — with  the  lamb." 

It's  a  novel  idea,  I  admit.  No  wonder  Vee 
gasps  a  little. 

' ( Why  not ! ' '  says  I.  ' '  Course  it  ain  't  reg  'lar, 
but  if  Mr.  Battou  wants  to  do  some  expert 
coachin',  I  expect  you  and  Bertha  could  use  it." 

*  *  Do,  Leon, ' '  urges  Madame  Battou.  * '  Lamb, 
is  it?  Oh,  he  is  wonderful  with  lamb." 

She  hadn't  overstated  the  case,  either.  In 
side  of  two  minutes  he  has  his  coat  off,  a  bath 
towel  draped  over  his  fancy  vest,  and  has  sent 
Bertha  skirmishin'  down  the  avenue  for  garlic, 
cloves,  parsley,  carrots,  and  a  few  other  things 
that  had  been  overlooked,  it  seems. 

Well,  we  stands  grouped  around  the  kitch 
enette  door  for  a  while,  watchin'  him  resusci 
tate  that  pale-lookin'  leg  of  lamb,  jab  things  into 
it,  pour  stuff  over  it,  and  mesmerize  the  gas 
oven  into  doin'  its  full  duty. 

Once  he  gets  started,  he  ain't  satisfied  with 


56  THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

simply  turnin'  out  the  roast.  He  takes  some 
string-beans  and  cuts  'em  into  shoe-laces;  he 
carves  rosettes  out  of  beets  and  carrots;  he 
produces  a  swell  salad  out  of  nothing  at  all; 
and  with  a  little  flour  and  whipped  cream  he 
throws  together  some  kind  of  puffy  dessert  that 
looked  like  it  would  melt  in  your  mouth. 

And  by  seven- thirty  we  was  sittin'  down  to  a 
meal  such  as  you  don't  meet  up  with  outside  of 
some  of  them  Fifth  Avenue  joints  where  you 
have  to  own  a  head  waiter  before  they  let  you 
in. 

"Whisper,  Professor,"  says  I,  "did  you  work 
a  spell  on  it,  or  what?" 

"Ah-h-h!"  says  Battou,  chucklin'  and  rubbin' 
his  hands  together.  "It  is  cooked  d  la  Paysan, 
after  the  manner  of  Peronne,  and  with  it  is  the 
sauce  chateau." 

' '  That  isn  't  mere  cookery, ' '  says  Vee ;  * '  that 's 
art." 

It  was  quite  a  cheery  evenin'.  And  after  the 
Battous  had  gone,  Vee  and  I  asked  each  other, 
almost  in  chorus:  "Do  you  suppose  he'd  do  it 
again!" 

"He  will  if  I'm  any  persuader,"  says  I. 
' '  Wouldn  't  it  be  great  to  spring  something  like 
that  on  Mr.  Robert?" 

And  while  I'm  shavin'  next  mornin'  I  con- 


SWITCHING  AETS  ON  LEON        57 

nect  with  the  big  idea.  Do  you  ever  get  'em 
that  way?  It  cost  me  a  nick  under  the  ear,  but 
I  didn't  care.  While  I'm  usin'  the  alum  stick  I 
sketches  out  the  scheme  for  Vee. 

"But,  Torchy!"  says  she.  "Do  you  think  he 
would — really  ? '  * 

Before  I  can  answer  there's  a  ring  at  the 
door,  and  here  is  M.  Leon  Battou. 

"The  agent  once  more!"  says  he,  producin'  a 
paper.  "In  three  days,  it  says.  But  you  have 
found  me  the  wall-painting,  yes  1 ' ' 

"Professor,"  says  I,  "I  hate  to  say  it,  but 
there's  nothin'  doing  in  the  free-hand  fresco 
line — absolutely. ' ' 

He  slumps  into  a  chair ,  and  that  pitiful, 
hunted  look  settles  in  his  eyes. 

' '  Then — then  we  must  go, ' '  says  he. 

"Listen,  Professor,"  says  I,  pattin'  him 
soothin'  on  the  shoulder.  "Why  not  can  this 
art  stuff,  that  nobody  wants,  and  switch  to 
somethin'  you're  a  wizard  at?" 

"You — you  mean,"  says  he,  "that  I  should — 
should  turn  chef?  I — Leon  Battou — in  a  big 
noisy  hotel  kitchen?  Oh,  but  I  could  not.  No, 
I  could  not!  " 

"Professor,"  says  I,  "the  only  person  in  this 
town  that  I  know  of  who 's  nutty  enough  to  want 
to  hire  a  wall  decorator  reg'lar  is  me!  " 


58  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"You!"  gasps  Battou,  starin'  around  at  our 
twelve  by  eighteen  livin'-room. 

I  nods. 

"What  would  you  take  it  on  for  as  a  steady 
job?" 

"Oh,  anything  that  would  provide  for  us," 
says  he,  eager.  "But  how— 

"That's  just  the  point,"  says  I.  "When  you 
wasn't  paintin'  could  you  cook  a  little  on  the 
side?  Officially  you'd  be  a  decorator,  but  be 
tween  times Eh  ? ' ' 

He's  a  keen  one,  Mr.  Battou. 

"For  so  charming  young  people,"  says  he, 
bowin'  low,  "it  would  be  a  great  pleasure.  And 
the  little  mother — ah,  you  should  see  what  a 
manager  she  is !  She  can  make  a  franc  go  far 
ther.  Could  she  assist  also?" 

"Could  she!"  exclaims  Vee.  "If  she  only 
would!" 

Well,  say,  inside  of  half  an  hour  we'd  fixed 
up  the  whole  deal,  I'd  armed  Battou  with  a 
check  to  shove  under  the  nose  of  that  agent,  and 
Vee  had  given  Bertha  her  permanent  release. 
And  believe  me,  compared  to  what  was 
put  before  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert  Ellins  that 
•evenin',  the  dress  rehearsal  dinner  looked 
like  Monday  night  at  an  actors'  boardin'- 
house. 


SWITCHING  ARTS  ON  LEON        59 

"I  say,"  whispers  Mr.  Robert,  "your  cook 
must  be  a  real  artist." 

"That's  how  he's  carried  on  the  family  pay 
roll,"  says  I. 

"Of  course,"  says  Vee  afterwards,  "while  we 
can  afford  it,  I  suppose,  it  does  seem  scanda 
lously  extravagant  for  us  to  have  cooking  like 
that  every  day." 

"Rather  than  have  you  worried  with  any 
more  Bunglin'  Berthas,"  says  I,  "I'd  subsidize 
the  whole  of  Peronne  to  come  over.  And  just 
think  of  all  I'll  save  by  not  havin'  to  buy  my 
hat  back  from  the  coat-room  boys  every  night." 


CHAPTER  V 

A  EECKUIT   FOB   THE   EIGHT-THREE 

HAVE  you  a  shiny  little  set  of  garden  tools  in 
your  home?  Have  we?  Well,  I  should  seed 
catalogue.  Honest  to  goodness !  Here !  I  can 
show  you  a  local  time-table  and  my  commuter's 
ticket.  How  about  that,  eh,  for  me  f 

And  I  don't  know  now  just  what  it  was 
worked  the  sudden  shift  for  us — the  Battous, 
or  our  visit  to  the  Robert  Ellinses',  or  meetin' 
up  with  MacGregor  Shinn,  the  consistent 
grouch. 

It  begun  with  window-boxes.  Professor  Leon 
Battou,  our  official  wall  decorator  and  actin' 
cook,  springs  'em  on  me  timid  one  day  after 
lunch.  It  had  been  some  snack,  too — onion 
soup  sprinkled  with  croutons  and  sprayed  with 
grated  cheese;  calf's  brains  au  buerre  noir;  a 
mixed  salad;  and  a  couple  of  gooseberry  tarts 
with  the  demi-tasse.  Say,  I'm  gettin'  so  I  can 
eat  in  French,  even  if  I  can't  talk  it. 

And  while  all  that  may  listen  expensive,  I 
have  Vee's  word  for  it  that  since  Madame  Bat- 

60 


RECRUIT  FOR  THE  EIGHT-THREE   61 

ton  has  been  doin'  the  marketin'  the  high  cost 
of  livin'  has  been  jarred  off  the  roost.  I  don't 
know  how  accurate  Professor  Leon  is  at  count- 
in'  up  the  calories  in  every  meal,  but  I'm  here 
to  announce  that  he  always  produces  something 
tasty,  with  no  post-prandial  regrets  concealed 
in  the  bottom  of  the  casserole. 

"Professor,"  says  I,  "I've  been  a  stranger 
to  this  burry  brains  style  of  nourishment  a  long 
time,  but  you  can  ring  an  encore  on  that  when 
ever  you  like." 

He  smiles  grateful,  but  shakes  his  head. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,"  says  he, — oh,  yes,  just  like 
that, — "but  if  I  had  the  fresh  chives,  the — the 
fin  herbes — ah,  then  you  should  see!" 

"Well,  can't  Madame  get  what  you  need  at 
the  stores?"  says  I. 

"But  at  such  a  price!"  says  Leon.  "And  of 
so  discouraging  a  quality.  While,  if  we  had  but 
a  few  handfuls  of  good  soil  in  some  small  boxes 

by  the  windows Come,  I  will  show  you. 

Here,  and  here,  where  the  sun  comes  in  the 
morning.  I  could  secure  them  myself  if  you 
would  not  think  them  unlovely  to  have  in  view." 

"How  about  it,  Vee?"  I  asks.  "Are  we  too 
proud  to  grow  our  soup  greens  on  the 
premises?" 

She  says  we  ain't,  so  I  tells  Leon  to  breeze 


62 

ahead  with  his  hangin'  garden.  Course,  I  ain't 
lookin'  for  anything  more'n  a  box  on  the  ledge. 
But  he's  an  ingenious  old  boy,  Leon.  With  a 
hammer  and  saw  and  a  few  boxes  from  the  gro 
cery,  he  builds  a  rack  that  fits  into  one  of  the 
front  windows;  and  the  first  thing  I  know,  he 
has  the  space  chuckful  of  shallow  trays,  and 
seeds  planted  in  every  one.  A  few  days  later, 
and  the  other  window  is  blocked  off  similar. 
Also  I  get  a  bill  from  the  florist  for  two  bushels 
of  dirt. 

Well,  our  front  windows  did  look  kind  of  odd, 
and  our  view  out  was  pretty  well  barred  off ;  but 
he  had  painted  the  things  up  neat,  and  he  did  all 
his  waterin'  and  fussin'  around  early  in  the 
mornin',  so  we  let  it  ride.  When  he  starts  in 
to  use  our  bedroom  windows  the  same  way, 
though,  I  has  to  call  him  off. 

"See  here,  Professor,"  says  I,  "you  ain't 
mistakin'  this  studio  apartment  for  a  New  Jer 
sey  truck-farm,  are  you?  Besides,  we  have  to 
keep  them  windows  open  at  night,  and  your 
green  stuff  is  apt  to  get  nipped." 

"Oh,  but  the  night  air  is  bad  to  breathe,  Mon 
sieur,"  says  he. 

"Not  for  us,"  says  I.  "Anyway,  we're  used 
to  it,  so  I  guess  you'll  have  to  lay  off  this  bed 
room  garden  business." 


BECRUIT  FOE  THE  EIGHT-THREE    62 

He  takes  away  the  boxes,  but  it's  plain  he's 
disappointed.  I  believe  if  I'd  let  him  gone  on 
he'd  had  cabbages  growin'  on  the  mantelpiece,  a 
lettuce  bed  on  the  readin '-table,  and  maybe  a 
potato  patch  on  the  fire-escape.  I  never  knew 
gardenin'  could  be  made  such  an  indoor  sport. 

"Poor  chap!"  says  Vee.  "He  has  been  tell 
ing  me  what  wonderful  things  he  used  to  raise 
when  he  lived  in  Peronne.  Isn't  there  some 
way,  Torchy,  that  we  could  give  him  more 
room  ? ' ' 

"We  might  rent  the  roof  and  glass  it  in  for 
him,"  I  suggests,  "or  get  a  permit  to  bridge 
over  the  street." 

' '  Silly ! ' '  says  she,  rumplin'  my  red  hair  reck 
less. 

That  was  about  the  time  we  was  havin'  some 
of  that  delayed  winter  weather,  and  it  was 
touchin'  to  see  Professor  Battou  nurse  along 
them  pale  green  shoots  that  he'd  coaxed  up  in 
his  window-boxes.  Then  it  runs  off  warm  and 
sunny  again,  just  as  we  gets  this  week-end  invite 
from  Mr.  Robert. 

Course,  I'd  been  out  to  his  Long  Island  place 
before,  but  somehow  I  hadn't  got  excited  over 
it.  This  time  it's  different.  Vee  was  goin' 
along,  for  one  thing.  And  I  expect  the  fact 
that  spring  had  come  bouncin'  in  on  us  after  a 


64  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

hard  winter  had  something  to  do  with  our  en 
thusiasm  for  gettin'  out  of  town.  You  know 
how  it  is.  For  eleven  months  you're  absolutely 
sure  the  city's  the  only  place  to  live  in,  and 
you  feel  sorry  for  them  near-Rubes  who  have 
to  catch  trains  to  get  home.  And  then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  about  this  time  of  year,  you  get  that 
restless  feelin',  and  wonder  what  it  is  ails  you. 
I  think  it  struck  Vee  harder  than  it  did  me. 

" Goody!"  says  she,  when  I  tell  her  we're 
expected  to  go  out  Saturday  noon  and  stay 
over  until  Monday  mornin '.  "It  is  real  country 
out  there,  too,  isn't  it?" 

" Blamed  near  an  hour  away,"  says  I. 
"Ought  to  be,  hadn't  it?" 

"I  hope  they  have  lilac  bushes  in  bloom," 
says  Vee.  "Do  you  know,  Torchy,  if  I  lived 
in  the  country,  I'd  have  those  if  nothing  else. 
Wouldn't  you?" 

"I  expect  so,"  says  I,  "though  I  ain't  doped 
out  just  what  I  would  do  in  a  case  like  that. 
It  ain't  seemed  worth  while.  But  if  lilacs  are 
the  proper  stunt  for  a  swell  country  place,  I'll 
bet  Mr.  Robert's  got  'em." 

By  the  time  we'd  been  shot  out  to  Harbor 
Hills  station,  though,  I'd  forgot  whether  it 
was  lilacs  or  lilies-of-the-valley  that  Vee  was 
particular  about;  for  Mr.  Robert  goes  along 


BECRUIT  FOR  THE  EIGHT-THREE    65 

with  us,  and  he's  joshin'  us  about  our  livin'  in 
a  four-and-bath  and  sportin'  a  French  chef. 

"Really,"  says  he,  "to  live  up  to  him  you 
ought  to  move  into  a  brewer's  palace  on  River 
side  Drive,  at  least." 

"Oh,  Battou  would  be  satisfied  if  I'd  lease 
Madison  Square  park  for  him,  so  he  could  raise 
onions,"  says  I. 

Which  reminds  Mr.  Robert  of  something. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  he  goes  on.  "You  must  see 
my  garden.  I'm  rather  proud  of  it,  you  know." 

"Your  garden!"  says  I,  grinnin'.  "You 
don't  mean  you've  been  gettin'  the  hoe  and 
rake  habit,  Mr.  Robert?" 

Honest,  that's  the  last  thing  you'd  look  for 
from  him,  for  until  he  got  married  about  the 
only  times  he  ever  strayed  from  the  pavements 
was  when  he  went  yachtin'.  But  by  the  way 
he  talks  now  you'd  think  farmer  was  his  middle 
name. 

"Now,  over  there,"  says  he,  after  we've  been 
picked  up  at  the  station  by  his  machine  and 
rolled  off  three  or  four  miles,  "over  there  I 
am  raising  a  crop  of  Italian  clover  to  plow  in. 
That's  a  new  hedge  I'm  setting  out,  too — 
hydrangeas,  I  think.  It  takes  time  to  get  things 
in  shape,  you  see." 

"Looks  all  right  to  me,  as  it  is,"  says  L 


66  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"You  got  a  front  yard  big  enough  to  get  lost 
in." 

Also  the  house  ain't  any  small  shack,  with  all 
its  dormers  and  striped  awnin's  and  deep 
verandas. 

But  it's  too  nice  an  afternoon  to  spend  much 
time  inside,  and  after  we've  found  Mrs.  Robert, 
Vee  asks  to  be  shown  the  garden. 

1 ' Certainly, "  says  Mr.  Robert.  "I  will  ex 
hibit  it  myself.  That  is — er — by  the  way,  Ger 
trude,  where  the  deuce  is  that  garden  of  ours!" 

Come  to  find  out,  it  was  Mrs.  Robert  who 
was  the  pie-plant  and  radish  expert.  She  could 
tell  you  which  rows  was  beets  and  which  was 
corn  without  lookin'  it  up  on  her  chart. 

She'd  been  takin'  a  course  in  landscape- 
gardening  too;  and  as  she  pilots  us  around  the 
grounds,  namin'  the  different  bushes  and 
things,  she  listens  like  a  nursery  pamphlet. 
And  Vee  falls  for  it  hard. 

"How  perfectly  splendid,"  says  she,  "to  be 
able  to  plan  things  like  that,  and  to  know  so 
many  shrubs  by  their  long  names.  But  haven't 
you  anything  as  common  as  lilacs!" 

Mrs.  Robert  laughs  and  shakes  her  head. 

"They  were  never  mentioned  in  my  course, 
you  see,"  says  she.  "But  our  nearest  neighbor 
has  some  wonderful  lilac  bushes.  Robert,  don't 


RECRUIT  FOR  THE  EIGHT-THREE    67 

you  think  we  might  walk  down  the  east  drive 
and  ask  your  dear  friend  Mr.  MacGregor  Shinn 
if  he'd  mind " 

"Decidedly  no,"  cuts  in  Mr.  Robert.  "I'd 
much  prefer  not  to  trouble  Mr.  Shinn  at 
all." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  says  Mrs.  Robert.  And 
then,  turnin'  to  us:  "We  haven't  been  particu 
larly  fortunate  in  our  relations  with  Mr.  Shinn ; 
our  fault,  no  doubt. ' ' 

But  you  know  Vee.  Half  an  hour  later, 
when  we've  been  left  to  ourselves,  she  an 
nounces  : 

"Come  along,  Torchy.  I  am  going  to  find 
that  east  drive." 

"It's  a  case  of  lilacs  or  bust,  eh?"  says  I. 
"All  right;  I'm  right  behind  you.  But  let's 
make  it  a  sleuthy  getaway,  so  they  won't 
know. ' ' 

We  let  on  it  was  a  risky  stunt,  slippin'  out 
a  side  terrace  door,  dodgin'  past  the  garage, 
and  finally  strikin'  a  driveway  different  from 
the  one  we'd  come  in  by.  We  follows  along 
until  we  fetches  up  by  some  big  stone  gate 
posts. 

"There  they  are !"  exclaims  Vee.  "Loads  of 
them.  And  aren't  they  fragrant?  Smell., 
Torchy." 


68  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

''I  am,"  says  I,  sniffin'  deep.  " Don't  you 
hear  me?" 

"Yes;  and  that  Mr.  Shinn  will  too,  if  you're 
as  noisy  as  that  over  it,"  says  she.  "I  sup 
pose  that  is  where  he  lives.  Isn't  it  the  cutest 
little  cottage?" 

"It  needs  paint  here  and  there,"  says  I. 

"I  know,"  says  Vee.  "But  look  at  that  old 
Dutch  roof  with  the  wide  eaves,  and  the  re 
cessed  doorway,  and  the  trellises  on  either  side, 
and  that  big  clump  of  purple  lilacs  nestling 
against  the  gable  end.  Oh,  and  there's  a  cun 
ning  little  pond  in  the  rear,  just  where  it  ought 
to  be!  I  do  wish  we  might  go  in  and  walk 
around  a  bit." 

1 '  Why  not  f "  says  I.    ' '  What  would  it  hurt  ? ' ' 

"But  that  Shinn  person,"  protests  Vee, 
"might — might  not " 

"Well,  he  couldn't  any  more'n  shoo  us  off," 
says  I,  "and  if  he's  nutty  enough  to  do  that 
after  a  good  look  at  you,  then  he's  hope 
less." 

"You  absurd  boy!"  says  Vee,  squeezin'  my 
hand.  "Well,  anyway,  we  might  venture  in  a 
step  or  two." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  don't  seem  to  be 
anyone  in  sight.  You  might  almost  think  no 
body  lived  there;  for  the  new  grass  ain't  been 


RECRUIT  FOR  THE  EIGHT-THREE    69 

cut,  the  flower  beds  are  full  of  dry  weeds  left 
over  from  last  fall,  and  most  of  the  green  shut 
ters  are  closed. 

There's  smoke  comin'  from  the  kitchen  chim 
ney,  though,  so  we  wanders  around  front, 
bringin'  up  under  the  big  lilac  bush.  It's  just 
covered  with  blossoms — a  truck-load,  I  should 
say;  and  it  did  seem  a  shame,  Vee  bein'  so 
strong  for  'em,  that  she  couldn't  have  one  little 
spray. 

"About  a  quarter  a  bunch,  them  would  be  on 
Broadway,"  says  I,  diggin'  up  some  change. 
"Well,  here's  where  Neighbor  Shinn  makes  a 
sale." 

And,  before  Vee  can  object,  I've  snapped  off 
the  end  of  a  twig. 

I'd  just  dropped  the  quarter  in  an  envelop 
and  was  stickin'  it  on  the  end  of  the  broken 
branch,  when  the  front  door  opens,  and  out 
dashes  this  tall  gink  with  the  rusty  Vandyke 
and  the  hectic  face.  Yep,  it's  a  lurid  map,  all 
right.  Some  of  it  might  have  been  from  goin* 
without  a  hat  in  the  wind  and  weather,  for  his 
forehead  and  bald  spot  are  just  as  high-colored 
as  the  rest;  but  there's  a  lot  of  temper  tint, 
too,  lightin'  up  the  tan,  and  the  deep  furrows 
between  the  eyes  shows  it  ain't  an  uncommon 
state  for  him  to  be  in.  Quite  a  husk  he  is,  cos- 


70  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

turned  in  a  plaid  golf  suit,  and  he  bores  down 
on  us  just  as  gentle  as  a  tornado. 

"I  say,  you!"  he  calls  out.  "Stop  where  you 
are." 

"Don't  hurry,"  says  I.  "We'll  wait  for 
you. ' ' 

"Ye  will,  wull  ye!"  he  snarls,  as  he  comes 
stampin'  up  in  front  of  us.  "Ye'd  best.  And 
what  have  ye  there,  Miss?  Hah!  Pickin'  me 
posies,  eh?  And  trespassin',  too." 

"That's  right,"  says  I.  "Petty  larceny  and 
breakin'  and  enterin'.  I'm  the  guilty  party." 

"I'm  sure  there's  nothing  to  make  such  a 
fuss  about,"  says  Vee,  eyin'  him  scornful. 

"Oh,  ho!"  says  he.  "It's  a  light  matter,  I 
suppose,  prowling  around  private  grounds  and 
pilfering?  I  ought  to  be  taking  it  as  a  joke, 
eh?  Don't  ye  know,  you  two,  I  could  have  you 
taken  in  charge  for  this  ? ' ' 

' l  Breeze  ahead,  then, ' '  says  I.  * '  Call  the  high 
sheriff.  Only  let's  not  get  all  foamed  up  over 
it,  Mr.  MacGregor  Shinn." 

"Ha!"  says  he.  "Then  ye  know  who  I 
am?  Maybe  you're  stopping  up  at  the  big 
house?" 

"We  are  guests  of  Mr.  Ellins,  your  neigh 
bor,"  puts  in  Vee. 

"He's  no  neighbor  of  mine,"  snaps  Shinn. 


RECRUIT  FOR  THE  EIGHT-THREE    71 

"Not  him.  His  bulldog  worries  me  cat,  his 
roosters  wake  me  up  in  the  morning,  and  his 
Dago  workmen  chatter  about  all  day  long.  No, 
I'll  not  own  such  a  man  as  neighbor.  Nor 
will  I  have  his  guests  stealing  my  posies." 

"Then  take  it,7'  says  Vee,  throwing  the  lilac 
spray  on  the  ground. 

"You'll  find  a  quarter  stuck  on  the  bush," 
says  I.  "Sorry,  MacGregor,  we  couldn't  make 
a  trade.  The  young  lady  is  mighty  fond  of 
lilacs. ' ' 

"Is  she,  now?"  says  Shinn,  still  scowlin'  at 
us. 

"And  she  thinks  your  place  here  is  pretty 
cute,"  I  adds. 

"It's  a  rotten  hole,"  says  he. 

"Maybe  you're  a  poor  judge,"  says  I.  "If 
it  was  fixed  up  a  bit  I  should  think  it  might  be 
quite  spiffy." 

"What  call  has  an  old  bachelor  to  be  fixing 
things  up!"  he  demands.  "What  do  I  care 
how  the  place  looks?  And  what  business  is  it 
of  yours,  anyway?" 

"Say,  you're  a  consistent  grouch,  ain't  you?" 
says  I,  givin'  him  the  grin.  "What's  the  par 
ticular  trouble — was  you  toppin'  your  drive  to 
day?" 

' ;  Slicin ',  men, ' '  says  he.    '  *  Hardly  a  tee  shot 


72  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

found  the  fairway  the  whole  round.  And  then 
you  two  come  breaking  me  bushes." 

"My  error,"  says  I.  "But  you  should  have 
hung  out  a  sign  that  you  was  inside  chewin' 
nails." 

"I  was  doing  nothing  of  the  kind,"  says  he. 
"I  was  waiting  for  that  grinning  idiot,  Len 
Hung,  to  give  me  me  tea," 

"Well,  don't  choke  over  it  when  you  do  get 
it,"  says  I.  "And  if  you  ain't  ready  to  sic  the 
police  on  us  we'll  be  trotting  along  back." 

"Ye  wull  not,"  says  MacGregor;  "ye '11  have 
tea  with  me." 

It  sounds  like  a  threat,  and  I  can  see  Vee 
gettin'  ready  to  object  strenuous.  So  I  gives 
her  the  nudge. 

I  expect  it's  because  I'm  so  used  to  Old 
Hickory's  blowin'  out  a  fuse  that  I  don't  duck 
quicker  when  a  gas-bomb  disposition  begins  to 
sputter  around.  They  don't  mean  half  of  it, 
these  furious  fizzers. 

Sometimes  it's  sciatica,  more  often  a  punk 
digestion,  and  seldom  pure  cussedness.  If  you 
don't  humor  'em  by  comin'  back  messy  your 
self,  but  just  jolly  'em  along,  they're  apt  to 
work  out  of  it.  And  I'd  seen  sort  of  a  human 
flicker  in  them  blue-gray  eyes  of  MacGregor 
Shinn's. 


EECRUIT  FOE  THE  EIGHT-THREE   73 

"Vee,"  says  I,  "our  peevish  friend  is  in- 
vitin'  us  to  take  tea  with  him.  Shall  we  chance 
it?" 

And  you  know  what  a  good  sport  Vee  is. 
She  lets  the  curve  come  into  her  mouth  corners 
again,  both  of  her  cheek  dimples  show,  and  she 
shoots  a  quizzin'  smile  at  Mr.  Shinn. 

"Does  he  say  it  real  polite?"  she  asks. 

"Na,"  says  MacGregor.  "But  there'll  be 
hot  scones  and  marmalade." 

' '  M-m-m-m ! ' '  says  Vee.    '  *  Let 's,  Torchy. ' ' 

It's  an  odd  finish  to  an  affair  that  started  so 
scrappy.  Not  that  Shinn  reverses  himself  en 
tirely,  or  turns  from  a  whiskered  golf  grump 
into  a  stage  fairy  in  spangled  skirts.  He  goes 
right  on  with  his  growlin'  and  grumblin'- 
about  the  way  his  Chink  cook  serves  the  tea, 
about  havin'  to  live  in  a  rotten  hole  like  Har 
bor  Hills,  about  everything  in  general.  But  a 
great  deal  of  it  is  just  to  hear  himself  talk,  I 
judge. 

We  had  a  perfectly  good  high  tea,  and  them 
buttered  scones  with  marmalade  couldn't  be 
beat.  Also  he  shows  us  all  over  the  house,  and 
Vee  raves  about  it. 

"Look,  Torchy!"  says  she.  "That  glimpse 
of  water  from  the  living-room  windows.  Isn't 
that  dear!  And  one  could  have  such  a  won- 


74 

derful  garden  beyond.  Such  a  splendid  big 
fireplace,  too.  And  what  huge  beams  in  the 
ceiling!  It's  a  very  old  house,  isn't  it,  Mr. 
Shinn?" 

"The  rascally  agent  who  sold  it  to  me  said  it 
was,"  says  MacGregor,  "but  I  wouldn't  be 
lieve  a  word  of  his  on  any  subject.  'Did  I  ask 
you  for  an  old  house,  at  all?'  I  tells  him.  For 
what  I  wanted  was  just  a  place  where  I  could 
live  quiet,  and  maybe  have  me  game  of  golf 
when  I  wanted  it.  But  here  I've  gone  off  me 
game;  and,  besides,  the  country's  no  place  to 
live  quiet  in.  I  should  be  in  town,  so  I  should, 
like  any  decent  white  man.  I've  a  mind  to 
look  up  a  place  at  once.  Try  another  scone, 
young  lady." 

So  it  was  long  after  six  before  we  got  away, 
and  the  last  thing  MacGregor  does  is  to  load 
Vee  down  with  a  whole  armful  of  lilac  blos 
soms. 

I  suppose  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert  thought  we'd 
been  makin'  a  wholesale  raid  when  they  saw 
us  comin'  in  with  the  plunder.  Mrs.  Robert 
almost  turns  pale. 

"Mercy!"  says  she.  "You  don't  mean  to 
say  you  got  all  those  from  our  neighbor's 
bushes,  do  you?" 

"Uh-huh,"  says  I.    "We've  been  mesmeriz- 


EECRUIT  FOE  THE  EIGHT-THREE    75 

in'  MacGregor.  He's  as  tame  a  Scot  now  as 
you'd  want  to  see." 

They  could  hardly  believe  it,  and  when  they 
heard  about  our  havin'  tea  with  him  they 
gasped. 

' '  Of  all  persons ! ' '  says  Mrs.  Eobert.  ' '  Why, 
he  has  been  glaring  at  us  for  a  year,  and  send 
ing  us  the  most  bristling  messages.  I  don't 
understand. ' ' 

Mr.  Eobert,  though,  winks  knowin'. 

"Some  of  Torchy's  red-headed  diplomacy,  I 
suspect,"  says  he.  "I  must  engage  you  to 
make  our  peace  with  MacGregor." 

That's  all  we  saw  of  him,  though,  durin'  our 
stay.  For  one  thing,  we  was  kept  fairly  busy. 
I  never  knew  you  could  have  so  much  fun  in 
the  country.  Ever  watch  a  bunch  of  young 
ducks  waddlin'  about?  Say,  ain't  they  a  cir 
cus!  And  them  fluffy  little  chicks  squabblin' 
over  worms.  Honest,  I  near  laughed  myself 
sick.  Vee  was  for  luggin'  some  of  'em  home  to 
the  apartment.  But  she  was  thrilled  over  'most 
everything  out  there,  from  the  fat  robins  on  the 
lawn  to  the  new  leaves  on  the  trees. 

And,  believe  me,  when  we  gets  back  to  town 
again,  our  studio  apartment  seems  cramped  and 
stuffy.  We  talked  over  everything  we'd  seen 
and  done  at  the  Ellinses'. 


76  THE  HOUSE  OF  TOBCHY 

"That's  really  living,  isn't  it?"  says  Vee. 

"Why  not,"  says  I,  "with  a  twenty-room 
house,  and  grounds  half  as  big  as  Central 
Park?" 

"I  know,"  says  Vee.  "But  a  little  place  like 
Mr.  Shinn's  would  be  large  enough  for  us." 

"I  expect  it  would,"  says  I.  "You  don't 
really  think  you'd  like  to  live  out  there,  do  you, 
though?" 

"Wouldn't  I!"  says  Vee,  her  eyes  sparklin'. 
"I'd  love  it." 

"What  would  you  do  all  day  alone?"  I  sug 
gests. 

"I'd  raise  ducks  and  chickens  and  flowers," 
says  Vee.  "And  Leon  could  have  a  garden. 
Just  think!" 

Yep — I  thought.  I  must  have  kept  awake 
hours  that  night,  tryin'  not  to.  And  the  more  I 
mulled  it  over—  Well,  in  the  mornin'  I  had 
a  talk  with  Mr.  Robert,  after  which  I  got  busy 
with  the  long-distance  'phone.  I  didn't  say 
anything  much  at  lunch  about  what  I'd  done, 
but  around  three  o'clock  I  calls  up  the  apart 
ment. 

"I'm  luggin'  home  someone  to  dinner,"  says 
I.  "Guess  who?" 

Vee  couldn't. 

"MacGregor  the  grouch,"  says  I. 


RECRUIT  FOR  THE  EIGHT-THREE   77 

1  <  Really  ? ' '  says  Vee.    * '  How  funny ! ' ' 

"It's  part  of  the  plot,"  says  I.  ''Tell  the 
Professor  to  spread  himself  on  the  eatings,  and 
have  the  rooms  all  fixed  up  slick." 

Vee  says  she  will.  And  she  does.  Mac- 
Gregor  falls  for  it,  too.  You  should  have  seen 
him  after  dinner,  leanin'  back  comfortable  in 
our  biggest  chair,  sippin'  his  coffee,  and  puffin' 
one  of  Old  Hickory's  special  perfectos  that  I'd 
begged  for  the  occasion. 

And  still  I  didn't  let  on.  What  I'm  after  is 
to  have  him  spring  the  proposition  on  me.  Just 
before  he's  ready  to  go,  too,  he  does. 

"I  say,"  says  he  casual,  "this  isn't  such  a 
bad  hole  you  have  here." 

"Perfectly  rotten,"  says  I. 

"Then  we  might  make  a  trade,"  says  he. 
"What?" 

"There's  no  tellin',"  says  I.  "You  mean  a 
swap,  as  things  stand!" 

"That's  it,"  says  he.  "I'm  no  hand  for 
moving  rubbish  about." 

"Me  either,"  says  I.  "But  if  you  mean 
business,  suppose  you  drop  in  to-morrow 
at  the  office,  about  ten-thirty,  and  talk  it 
over." 

"Very  well,"  says  MacGregor.  "I'll  stop 
in  town  to-night." 


78  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Oh,  Torchy!"  says  Vee,  after  he's  gone. 
"Do — do  you  suppose  he  will — really!" 

"You're  still  for  it,  eh!"  says  I.  "Sure, 
now!" 

"Oh,  it  would  be  almost  too  good  to  be  true," 
says  she.  ' '  That  could  be  made  just  the  dear 
est  place!" 

"Yes,"  says  I;  "but  my  job  is  to  talk  Mae- 
Gregor  into  lettin'  it  go  cheap,  or  else  we  can't 
afford  to  touch  it." 

Well,  I  can't  claim  it  was  all  my  smooth 
work  that  did  the  trick,  for  MacGregor  had 
bought  the  place  at  a  bargain  first  off,  and  now 
he  was  anxious  to  unload.  Still,  he  hadn't  been 
born  north  of  Glasgow  for  nothing.  But  the 
figures  Mr.  Eobert  said  would  be  about  right  I 
managed  to  shade  by  twenty  per  cent.,  and  my 
lump  invoice  of  that  old  mahogany  of  ours 
maybe  was  a  bit  generous.  Anyway,  when  I 
goes  home  that  night  I  tosses  Vee  a  long 
envelop. 

"What's  this?"  says  she. 

"That's  your  chicken  permit,"  says  I.  "All 
aboard  for  Lilac  Lodge!  Gee!  I  wonder 
should  I  grow  whiskers,  livin'  out  there!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

TOBOHY  IN  THE  GAZINKUS  CLASS 

I  EXPECT  I'll  get  used  to  it  all  in  time.  This 
rural  stuff,  I  mean.  But  it  ain't  goin'  to  come 
easy.  When  you've  been  brought  up  to  think 
of  home  as  some  place  where  you've  got  a  right 
to  leave  your  trunk  as  long  as  you  pay  the  rent 
prompt, — a  joint  where  you  have  so  many 
square  feet  of  space  on  a  certain  floor,  and 
maybe  eight  or  ten  inches  of  brick  and  plaster 
between  you  and  a  lot  of  strangers, — and  then 
all  of  a  sudden  you  switch  to  a  whole  house 
that's  all  yours,  with  gobs  of  land  all  around  it, 
and  trees  and  bushes  and  things  that  you  can 
do  what  you  like  with — well,  it's  sort  of  stag- 
gerin'  at  first. 

Why,  the  day  Vee  and  I  moved  into  this  Har 
bor  Hills  place  that  I'd  made  the  swift  trade 
for  with  MacGregor  Shinn,  we  just  had  our 
baggage  dumped  in  the  middle  of  the  livin'- 
room,  chucked  our  wraps  on  some  chairs,  and 
went  scoutin'  around  from  one  room  to  another 
for  over  an  hour,  kind  of  nutty  and  excited. 

79 


80  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Oh,  look,  Torchy!"  Vee  would  exclaim 
about  twice  a  minute  when  she  discovered  some 
thing  new. 

You  know,  we'd  been  in  the  house  only  once 
before,  and  then  we'd  looked  around  just  cas 
ual.  And  if  you  want  to  find  out  how  little  you 
really  see  when  you  think  you're  lookin',  you 
want  to  make  a  deal  like  that  once — buy  a  joint 
just  as  it  stands,  and  then,  a  few  days  after, 
camp  down  in  it  and  tot  up  what  you've  really 
got.  Why,  say,  you'd  'most  thought  we'd  been 
blindfolded  that  first  time. 

Course,  this  was  different.  Now  we  was  tak- 
in'  stock,  you  might  say,  of  the  things  we  was 
goin'  to  live  with.  And,  believe  me,  I  never 
had  any  idea  I'd  ever  own  such  a  collection,  or 
so  big  a  slice  of  the  U.  S.  A. 

' 'Only  think,  Torchy,"  says  Vee,  after  we've 
made  the  rounds  inside.  "Ten  rooms,  just  for 
us!" 

"Twelve,  countin'  the  cellar  and  attic,"  says 
I.  "But  there's  more  outside,  ain't  there?" 

Yep,  there  was.  There  was  an  old  stable  that 
had  been  turned  into  a  garage,  with  a  couple  of 
rooms  finished  off  upstairs.  Then  there  was  a 
carriage  shed,  with  more  rooms  over  that,  also 
a  chicken  house  beyond.  And  stowed  away  in 
odd  corners  was  all  kinds  of  junk  that  might  be 


TOKCHY  IN  THE  GAZINKUS  CLASS  81 

more  or  less  useful  to  have:  a  couple  of  lawn- 
mowers,  an  old  sleigh  hoisted  up  on  the  rafters 
of  the  carriage  house,  a  weird  old  buggy,  a  plow, 
a  grindstone,  a  collection  of  old  chairs  and 
sofas  that  had  seen  better  days,  a  birch-bark 
canoe — things  like  that. 

Then  there  was  our  lily  pond.  We  had  to 
walk  all  round  that,  poke  in  with  a  pole  to  see 
how  deep  it  might  be,  and  wonder  if  there  was 
any  fish  in  it.  On  beyond  was  some  trees — apple 
and  pear  and  cherry,  accordin'  to  Vee,  and  'way 
at  the  back  a  tall  cedar  hedge. 

"Why,  it's  almost  an  estate,"  says  Vee. 
"Nearly  five  acres,  you  know.  How  does  it 
seem,  Torchy,  to  think  that  all  this  is  ours  ? ' ' 

'  '  How  r '  says  I.  ' « Why,  I  feel  like  I  was  the 
Grand  Gazinkus  of  Gazook." 

But,  at  that,  my  feelin's  wa'n't  a  marker  to 
the  emotions  Professor  Leon  Battou,  our  artist- 
chef,  manages  to  work  up.  He's  so  tickled  at 
gettin'  back  to  the  country  and  away  from  the 
city,  where  him  and  Madame  Battou  come  so 
near  starvin'  on  the  street,  that  he  goes  skip- 
pin'  around  like  a  sunshine  kid,  pattin'  the 
trees,  droppin'  down  on  his  hands  and  knees 
in  the  grass  to  dig  up  dandelions,  and  keepin' 
up  a  steady  stream  of  explosive  French  and 
rapid-fire  English. 


82  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Ah,  but  it  is  all  so  good!"  says  he  "Le 
bleu  del,  les  fleurs,  les  oiseaux!  C'est  bonne, 
tres  bonne.  Ne  c'est  pas?" 

"I  expect  it  is,  Leon,"  says  I.  "Although  I 
might  not  state  it  just  that  way  myself.  Picked 
out  a  spot  yet  for  your  garden?" 

Foolish  question!  That  was  his  first  move, 
after  taking  a  glance  at  the  particular  brand  of 
cook-stove  he'd  got  to  wrestle  with.  Just  to 
the  left  of  the  kitchen  wing  is  a  little  plot  shut 
in  by  privet  bushes  and  a  trellis,  which  is  where 
he  says  the  fine  herbes  are  meant  to  grow. 
He  tows  us  around  there  and  exhibits  it  chesty. 
Mostly  it's  full  of  last  year's  weeds;  but  he  ex 
plains  how  he  will  soon  have  it  in  shape.  And 
for  the  next  week  the  only  way  we  ever  got  any 
meals  cooked  was  because  Madame  Battou  used 
to  go  drag  him  in  by  the  arm  and  make  him 
quit  diggin'  long  enough  to  hash  up  some  of 
them  tasty  dishes  for  us. 

If  all  amateur  gardeners  are  apt  to  go  so 
dippy  over  it,  I  hope  I  don't  catch  the  disease. 
No  danger,  I  guess.  I  made  my  stab  at  it  about 
the  third  day,  when  Vee  wanted  some  ground 
spaded  up  for  a  pansy  bed.  And  say,  in  half 
an  hour,  there,  I'd  worked  up  enough  palm 
blisters  and  backache  to  last  me  a  month.  It 
may  seem  sport  to  some  people,  but  to  me  it  has 


TOECHY  IN  THE  GAZINKUS  CLASS  83 

all  the  ear-marks  of  plain,  hard  work,  such  as 
you  can  indulge  in  reg'lar  by  carryin'  a  foldin' 
dinner-pail  and  lettin'  yourself  out  to  a  padrone. 

Leon,  though,  just  couldn't  seem  to  let  it 
alone.  He  almost  made  a  vice  of  it,  to  my  mind. 
Why,  say,  he's  out  there  at  first  crack  of  day, 
whenever  that  is;  and  in  the  evenin',  as  soon 
as  he  has  served  dinner,  he  sneaks  out  to  put 
in  a  few  more  licks,  and  stays  until  it 's  so  dark 
he  can  hardly  find  his  way  back. 

You  know  all  them  window-boxes  he  had  clut- 
terin'  up  the  studio  apartment.  Well,  he 
insists  on  cratin'  every  last  one  of  'em  and 
expressin'  'em  along;  and  now  he  has  all  that 
alleged  lettuce  and  parsley  and  carrots  and  so 
on  set  out  in  neat  little  rows ;  and  when  he  ain't 
sprinklin'  'em  with  the  hose  or  dosin'  'em  with 
fertilizer,  he's  out  there  ticklin'  'em  with  a 
rake. 

"Gee!"  says  I.  "I  thought  all  you  had  to  do 
to  a  garden  was  just  to  chuck  in  the  seeds  and 
let  'em  grow.  But  accordin'  to  your  method  it 
would  be  less  trouble  bringin'  up  a  pair  of 
twins." 

"Ah-h-h-h!"  says  he.  "But  monsieur  has 
not  the  passion  for  growing  green  things." 

"Thanks  be,  then,"  says  I.  "It  would  land 
me  in  the  liniment  ward  if  I  had. ' ' 


84  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

I  must  say,  though,  that  Vee's  'most  as  bad 
with  her  flowers.  Honest,  when  she  shows  me 
where  she's  planned  to  have  this  and  that,  and 
hints  that  I  can  get  busy  durin'  my  spare  time 
with  the  spade,  I  almost  wished  we  was  back 
in  town. 

''What?"  I  gasps.  "Want  me  to  excavate 
all  that?  Hal-tap!" 

"Pooh!"  says  Vee.  "It  will  do  you 
good." 

Maybe  she  thought  so.  But  I  knt-w  it  would 
n't.  So  I  chases  up  the  hill  to  the  Dims  place, 
and  broke  in  on  Mr.  Robert  just  as  hr  's  finishin' 
breakfast. 

"Say,"  says  I,  "you  ain't  got  a  baby-grand 
steam-shovel  or  anything  like  that  around  the 
place,  have  you?" 

He  says  he's  sorry,  but  he  ain't.  When  he 
hears  what  I'm  up  against,  though,  he  comes 
to  the  rescue  noble  by  lendin'  me  one  of  his 
expert  Dago  soil-disturbers,  at  $1.75  per — and 
with  Vee  bossin'  him  she  got  the  whole  job  done 
in  half  a  day.  After  that  I  begun  to  enjoy  gar- 
denin'  a  bit  more.  I'm  gettin'  to  be  a  real 
shark  at  it,  too.  And  ambitious !  You  ought  to 
hear  me. 

"How  about  havin'  a  couple  more  lanes  of 
string-beans  laid  out?"  I  suggests.  "And 


TORCHY  IN  THE  GAZINKUS  CLASS  85 

maybe  a  few  hundred  mounds  of  green  corn, 
eh?" 

And  then  I  can  watch  Joe  start  the  enter 
prise  with  a  plow  and  an  old  white  horse,  and 
I  can  go  to  the  office  feelin'  that,  no  matter  how 
much  I  seem  to  be  soldiering  as  a  matter  of  fact 
I'm  puttin'  in  a  full  day's  work.  When  I  get 
back  in  the  afternoon,  the  first  thing  I  want  to 
see  is  how  much  I've  got  done. 

Not  that  I'm  able  to  duck  all  kinds  of  labor 
that  way.  Believe  me,  a  country  place  is  no 
loafin'  spot,  especially  when  it's  new,  or  you're 
new  to  it.  Vee  tends  to  that.  Say,  that  girl  can 
think  up  more  odd  forms  of  givin'  me  exercise 
than  a  bunch  of  football  coaches — movin'  bu 
reaus,  hangin'  pictures,  puttin'  up  curtain- 
rods,  fixin'  door-catches,  and  little  things  like 
that. 

Up  to  a  few  weeks  ago  all  I  knew  about  saws 
and  screw-drivers  and  so  on  was  that  they  were 
shiny  things  displayed  in  the  hardware  store 
windows.  But  if  I  keep  on  tacklin'  all  the  odd 
jobs  she  sics  me  on  to,  I'll  be  able  to  qualify 
pretty  soon  as  a  boss  carpenter,  a  master 
plumber,  and  an  expert  electrician. 

Course,  I  gouge  myself  now  and  then.  My 
knuckles  look  like  I'd  been  mixin'  in  a  food 
riot,  and  I've  spoiled  two  perfectly  good  suits 


86  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

of  clothes.  But  I  can  point  with  pride  to  at 
least  three  doors  that  I've  coaxed  into  shuttin', 
I've  solved  the  mystery  of  what  happens  to  a 
window-weight  when  the  sash-cord  breaks,  and 
I've  rigged  up  two  drop-lights  without  gettin' 
myself  electrocuted  or  askin'  any  advice  from 
Mr.  Edison. 

Which  reminds  me  that  what  I  can't  seem  to 
get  used  to  about  the  country  is  the  poor  way 
it's  lighted  up  at  night.  You  know,  our  place 
is  out  a  couple  of  miles  from  the  village  and  the 
railroad  station;  and,  while  we  got  electric 
bulbs  enough  in  the  house,  outside  there  ain't 
a  lamp-post  in  sight.  Dark !  Say,  after  8  P.M. 
you  might  as  well  be  livin'  in  a  sub-cellar  with 
the  sidewalk  gratin'  closed.  Honest,  the  only 
glim  we  can  see  from  our  front  porch  is  a  flicker 
from  the  porte  cochere  at  the  Ellinses'  up  on 
the  hill,  and  most  of  that  is  cut  off  by  trees  and 
lilac  bushes. 

Vee  don't  seem  to  mind,  though.  These  mild 
evenin's  recent,  she's  dragged  me  out  after  din 
ner  for  a  spell  and  made  me  sit  with  her  watch- 
in  '  for  the  moon  to  come  up.  I  do  it,  but  it 
ain't  anything  I'm  strong  for.  I  can't  see  the 
percentage  in  starin'  out  at  nothing  at  all 
but  black  space  and  guessin'  where  the  drive 
way  is  or  what  them  dark  streaks  are.  Then, 


TORCHY  IN  THE  GAZINKUS  CLASS  87 

there's  so  many  weird  sounds  I  can't  account 
for. 

"What's  all  that  jinglin'  going  on?"  I  asks 
the  other  evenin'.  "Sounds  like  a  squad  of 
junkmen  comin'  up  the  pike." 

"Silly!"  says  Vee.    "Frogs,  of  course." 

"Oh!"  says  I. 

Then  I  listens  some  more,  until  something 
else  breaks  loose.  It's  sort  of  a  cross  between 
the  dyin'  moan  of  a  gyastacutus  and  the  whine 
of  a  subway  express  roundin'  a  sharp  curve. 

"For  the  love  of  Pete,"  I  breaks  out,  "what 
do  you  call  that!" 

Vee  chuckles.  "Didn't  you  see  the  calf  up 
at  Mr.  Robert's?"  she  asks.  "Well,  that's  the 
old  cow  calling  to  him." 

"If  she  feels  as  bad  as  that,"  says  I,  "I  wish 
she'd  wait  until  mornin'  to  express  herself. 
That's  the  most  doleful  sound  I  ever  heard. 
Come  on ;  let 's  go  in  while  you  tinkle  out  some 
thing  lively  and  cheerin'  on  the  piano." 

I  never  thought  I  was  one  of  the  timid  kind, 
either.  Course,  I'm  no  Carnegie  hero,  or  any 
thing  like  that;  but  I've  always  managed  to  get 
along  in  the  city  without  developin'  a  case  of 
nerves.  Out  here,  though,  it's  different.  Two 
or  three  evenin 's  now  I've  felt  almost  jumpy, 
just  over  nothing  at  all,  it  seems. 


88  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

Maybe  that's  why  I  didn't  show  up  any  bet 
ter,  here  the  other  night,  when  Vee  rings  in 
this  silent  alarm  on  me.  I  was  certainly 
poundin'  my  ear  industrious  when  gradually 
I  gets  the  idea  that  someone  is  shakin'  me  by 
the  shoulders.  It's  Vee. 

"Torchy,"  she  whispers  husky.    "Get  up." 

"Eh?"  says  I,  pryin'  my  eyes  open  reluctant. 
"Get  up?  Wha-wha'  for?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  stupid  about  it,"  says  she. 
"I've  been  trying  to  rouse  you  for  five  minutes. 
Please  get  up  and  come  to  the  window." 

"Nothing  doing,"  says  I  snugglin'  into  the 
pillow  again.  "I — I'm  busy." 

"But  you  must,"  says  she.  "Listen.  I  think 
someone  is  prowling  around  the  house. ' ' 

"Let  'em  ramble,  then,"  says  I.  "What  do 
we  care?" 

"But  suppose  it's  a — a  burglar?"  she  whis 
pers. 

I'll  admit  that  gives  me  a  goose-fleshy  feelin' 
down  the  spine.  It's  such  a  disturbin'  word 
to  have  sprung  on  you  in  the  middle  of  the 
night. 

"Let's  not  suppose  anything  of  the  sort," 
says  I. 

"But  I'm  sure  I  saw  someone  just  now,  when 
I  got  up  to  fix  the  shade,"  insists  Vee.  "Some- 


one  who  stepped  out  into  the  moonlight  right 
there,  between  the  shadows  of  those  two  trees. 
Then  he  disappeared  out  that  way.  Come  and 
look." 

Well,  I  was  up  by  then,  and  half  awake,  so  I 
tries  to  peer  out  into  the  back  yard.  I'm  all  for 
grantin'  a  general  alibi,  though. 

"  Maybe  you  was  only  dreamin',  Vee,"  says 
I.  "Anyway,  let's  wait  until  mornin',  and 
then " 

"There!"  she  breaks  in  excited.  "Just  be 
yond  the  garden  trellis.  See?" 

Yep.  There's  no  denyin'  that  someone  is 
sneakin'  around  out  there.  First  off  I  thought 
it  might  be  a  female  in  a  white  skirt  and  a  rain 
coat;  but  when  we  gets  the  head  showin'  plain 
above  some  bushes  we  can  make  out  a  mus 
tache. 

"It's  a  man !"  gasps  Vee,  clutchin'  me  by  the 
sleeve. 

"Uh-huh,"  says  I.    "So  it  is." 

"Well?"  says  Vee. 

I  expect  that  was  my  cue  to  come  across  with 
the  bold  and  noble  acts.  But,  somehow,  I  did 
n't  yearn  to  dash  out  into  the  moonlight  in 
my  pajamas  and  mix  in  rough  with  a  total 
stranger.  But  I  didn  't  mean  to  give  it  away  if 
I  could  help  it. 


90  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Got  a  nerve,  ain't  he?"  says  I.  "Let's 
wait;  maybe  he'll  fall  into  the  pond." 

"How  absurd!"  says  Vee.  "No;  we  must 
do  something  right  away." 

"Of  course,"  says  I.  "I'll  shout  and  ask 
him  what  the  blazes  he  thinks  he's  doin'." 

"Don't,"  says  Vee.  "There  may  be  others 
—in  the  house.  And  before  you  let  him  know 
you  see  him,  you  ought  to  be  armed.  Get  your 
revolver." 

At  that  I  just  gawped  at  Vee,  for  she  knows 
well  enough  I  don't  own  anything  more  deadly 
than  a  safety  razor,  and  that  all  the  gun-play 
I  ever  indulged  in  was  once  or  twice  at  a  Coney 
Island  shootin'  gallery  where  I  slaughtered  a 
clay  pipe  by  aimin'  at  a  glass  ball. 

"Whaddye  mean,  revolver?"  I  asks. 

* '  S-s-s-sh ! ' '  says  she.  '  *  There 's  that  Turkish 
pistol,  you  know,  that  Mr.  Shinn  left  hanging 
over  the  mantel  in  the  living-room." 

"Think  it's  loaded?"  I  whispers. 

"It  might  be,"  says  Vee.  "Anyway,  it's  bet 
ter  than  nothing.  Let's  get  it." 

"All  right,"  says  I.  "Soon  as  I  get  some 
thing  on.  Just  a  sec." 

So  I  jumps  into  a  pair  of  trousers  and  a  coat 
and  some  bath  slippers,  while  Vee  throws  on  a 
dressin'-sack.  We  feels  our  way  sleuthy  down- 


TORCHY  IN  THE  GAZINKUS  CLASS  91 

stairs,  and  after  rappin'  my  shins  on  a  couple 
of  rockers  I  gets  down  the  old  pistol.  It's  a 
curious,  wicked-lookin'  antique  about  two  feet 
long,  with  a  lot  of  carvin'  and  silver  inlay  on 
the  barrel.  I'd  never  examined  the  thing  to 
see  how  it  worked,  but  it  feels  sort  of  comfortin' 
just  to  grip  it  in  my  hand.  We  unlocks  the 
back  door  easy. 

"Now  you  stay  inside,  Vee,"  says  I,  "while 
I  go  scoutin'  and " 

"No  indeed,"  says  Vee.    "I  am  going  too." 

"But  you  mustn't,"  I  insists. 

"Hush!"  says  she.    "I  shall." 

And  she  did.  So  we  begins  our  first  burglar 
hunt  as  a  twosome,  and  I  must  say  there's  other 
sports  I  enjoy  more.  Out  across  the  lawn  we 
sneaks,  steppin'  as  easy  as  we  can,  and  keepin' 
in  the  shadow  most  of  the  time. 

"Guess  he  must  have  skipped,"  says  I. 

"But  he  was  here  only  a  moment  ago,"  says 

Vee.  "Don't  you  know,  we  saw  him Oh, 

oh!" 

I  don't  blame  her  for  gaspin'.  Not  twenty 
feet  ahead  of  us,  crouchin'  down  in  the  cabbage 
patch,  is  the  villain.  Just  why  he  should  be 
tryin'  to  hide  among  a  lot  of  cabbage  plants 
not  over  three  inches  high,  I  don't  stop  to  think. 
All  I  knew  was  that  here  was  someone  prowlin' 


92  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

around  at  night  on  my  premises,  and  all  in  a 
flash  I  begins  to  see  red.  Swingin'  Vee  behind 
me,  I  unlimbers  the  old  pistol  and  cocks  it.  I 
didn't  care  whether  this  was  the  open  season 
for  burglars  or  not.  I  wanted  to  get  this  one, 
and  get  him  hard. 

Must  have  been  a  minute  or  more  that  I  had 
him  covered,  tryin'  to  steady  my  arm  so  I  could 
keep  the  muzzle  pointed  straight  at  his  back, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  he  lifts  his  right  hand 
and  begins  scratchin'  his  ear.  Somehow,  that 
breaks  the  spell.  Why  should  a  burglar  hump 
himself  on  his  hands  and  knees  in  a  truck  patch 
and  stop  to  scratch  his  ear? 

"Hey,  you!"  I  sings  out  real  crisp. 

Maybe  that  ain't  quite  the  way  to  open  a 
line  of  chat  with  a  midnight  marauder.  I've 
been  kidded  about  it  some  since;  but  at  the 
time  it  sounded  all  right.  And  it  had  the 
proper  effect.  He  comes  up  on  his  toes  with  his 
hands  in  the  air,  like  he  was  worked  by  springs. 

"That's  right;  keep  your  paws  up,"  says  I. 
"And,  remember,  if  you  go  to  makin'  any  funny 
moves " 

""Why,  Torchy!"  exclaims  Vee,  grabbin'  my 
shootin'  arm.  "It's  Leon!" 

"Wha-a-a-at!"  says  I,  starin'  at  this  wabbly 
party  among  the  coldslaw. 


TORCHY  IN  THE  GAZINKUS  CLASS   93 

But  it's  Professor  Battou,  all  right.  He's 
costumed  in  a  night-shirt,  an  old  overcoat,  and  a 
pair  of  rubbers ;  and  he  certainly  does  look  odd, 
standin'  there  in  the  moonlight  with  his  elbows 
up  and  his  knees  knockin'  one  another. 

1  'Well,  well,  Leon!"  says  I,  sighin'  relieved. 
"So  it's  you,  is  it?  And  we  had  you  all  spotted 
as  a  second-story  worker.  All  right;  you  don't 
need  to  hold  the  pose  any  longer.  But  may 
be  you'll  tell  us  what  you're  crawlin'  around 
out  here  in  the  garden  for  at  this  time  of 
night." 

He  tried  to,  but  he's  had  such  a  scare  thrown 
into  him  that  his  conversation  works  are  all 
gummed  up.  After  we've  led  him  into  the 
house,  though,  and  he's  had  a  drink  of  spring 
water,  he  does  a  little  better. 

"It  was  to  protect  the  cabbages,  monsieur," 
says  he. 

"Eh I"  says  I.    "Protect  'em  from  what?" 

"There  is  a  wicked  worm,"  says  Leon, 
"which  does  his  evil  work  in  the  night.  Ah, 
such  a  sly  beast!  And  so  destructive!  Just 
at  the  top  of  the  young  root  he  eats — snip,  snip! 
And  in  the  morning  I  find  that  two,  four,  some 
times  six  tender  plants  he  has  cut  off.  I  am 
enrage.  'Ha!'  I  say.  'I  will  discover  you  yet 
at  your  mischief.'  So  I  cannot  sleep  for  think- 


94  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

ing.  But  I  had  found  him;  yes,  two.  And  I 
was  searching  for  more  when  monsieur— 

"Yes,  I  know,"  says  I.  He's  glancin'  wor 
ried  at  the  old  pistol  I'm  still  holdin'  in  my 
hand.  "My  error,  Leon.  I  might  have  guessed. 
And  as  the  clock's  just  strikin'  three,  I  think 
we'd  all  better  hit  the  hay  again.  Come  on, 
Vee;  it's  all  over." 

And,  in  spite  of  that  half  hour  or  so  of  time 
out,  I  was  up  earlier  than  usual  in  the  mornin'. 
I  had  a  little  job  to  do  that  I'd  planned  out 
before  I  went  to  sleep  again.  As  soon  as  I'm 
dressed  I  slips  downstairs,  takes  that  Turkish 
pistol,  and  chucks  it  into  the  middle  of  the 
pond.  I'll  never  know  whether  it  was  loaded 
or  not.  I  don't  want  to  know.  For  if  it  had 
been Well,  what's  the  use? 

Comin'  back  in  through  the  kitchen,  I  finds 
Leon  busy  dishin'  up  toast  and  eggs.  He 
glances  at  me  nervous,  and  then  hangs  his 
head.  But  he  gets  out  what  he  has  to  say  man 
fashion. 

"I  trust  monsieur  is  not  displeased,"  says 
he.  "It  was  not  wise  for  me  to  walk  about  at 
night.  But  those  wicked  worms !  Still,  if  mon 
sieur  desires,  it  shall  not  occur  again.  I  ask 
pardon." 

"Now,  that's  all  right,  Leon,"  says  I  sooth- 


TOECHY  IN  THE  GAZINKUS  CLASS  95 

in'.  " Don't  worry.  When  it  comes  to  playin' 
the  boob  act,  I  guess  we  split  about  fifty-fifty. 
I'd  a  little  rather  you  didn't,  but  if  you  must 
hunt  the  wicked  worm  at  night,  why,  go  to  it. 
You  won't  run  any  more  risk  of  being  shot  up 
by  me.  For  I've  disarmed. " 


CHAPTER  VII 

BACK  WITH  CLAEA  BELUE 

AND  me  kiddin'  myself  I  was  fairly  well 
parlor-broke.  It  seems  not.  You'd 'most  think, 
though,  I'd  had  enough  front-room  trainin'  to 
stand  me  through  in  a  place  like  Harbor  Hills. 
I  had  a  wild  idea,  too,  that  when  we  moved  into 
the  country  we'd  tagged  the  reg'lar  social  stuff 
good-by. 

That  was  a  poor  hunch.  I'm  just  discoverin' 
that  there's  more  tea  fights  and  dinner  dances 
and  such  goin's  on  out  here  in  the  commuter 
zone  than  in  any  five  blocks  of  Fifth  Avenue 
you  can  name.  And  it  seems  that  anywhere 
within  ten  miles  of  this  Piping  Rock  Club  brings 
you  into  the  most  active  sector.  So  here  we  are, 
right  in  the  thick  of  things. 

At  that,  I  expect  it  might  have  been  quite 
some  time  before  we  was  bothered  any  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  our  bein'  sort  of  backed  by  the 
Robert  Ellinses.  As  their  friends  we're  counted 
in  right  off  the  reel.  I've  been  joshed  into  let- 


BACK  WITH  CLARA  BELLE         97 

tin'  my  name  go  on  the  waitin'  list  at  the  Coun 
try  Club;  I'm  allowed  to  subscribe  to  this  and 
that;  some  of  the  neighbors  have  begun  payin' 
first  calls  on  Vee. 

So  I  might  have  had  sense  enough  to  watch 
my  step.  Yet,  here  the  other  afternoon,  when 
I  makes  an  early  getaway  from  the  Corrugated 
and  hops  off  the  5 : 17,  I  dashes  across  the  back 
lots  and  comes  into  our  place  by  the  rear  instead 
of  the  front  drive.  You  see,  I'd  been  watchin' 
a  row  of  string-beans  we  had  comin'  along,  and 
I  wanted  to  spring  the  first  ones  on  Vee.  Sure 
enough,  I  finds  three  or  four  pods  'most  big 
enough  to  eat;  so  I  picks  'em  and  goes  breezin' 
into  the  house,  wavin'  em  gleeful. 

"Oh,  Vee!"  I  sings  out,  openin'  the  terrace 
door.  "Come  have  a  look." 

And,  as  she  don't  appear  on  the  jump,  I 
keeps  on  into  the  livin'-room  and  calls: 

"Hey!  What  do  you  know  about  these? 
Beans!  Perfectly  good " 

Well,  that's  as  far  as  I  gets,  for  there's  Vee, 
sittin'  behind  the  silver  tea-urn,  all  dolled  up; 
and  Leon,  in  his  black  coat,  holdin'  a  plate 
of  dinky  little  cakes;  and  a  couple  of  strange 
ladies  starin'  at  me  button-eyed.  I'd  crashed 
right  into  the  midst  of  tea  and  callers. 

Do  I  pull  some  easy  johndrew  lines  and  exit 


98  THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

graceful!  Not  me.  My  feet  was  glued  to  the 
rug. 

1  'Beans!"  says  I,  grinnin'  simple  and 
danglin'  the  specimens.  "Perfectly  good 
string " 

Then  I  catches  the  eye  of  the  stiff-necked 
dame  with  the  straight  nose  and  the  gun-metal 
hair.  No,  both  eyes,  it  was;  and  a  cold,  sus 
picious,  stabby  look  is  what  they  shoots  my 
way.  No  wonder  I  chokes  off  the  feeble-minded 
remarks  and  turns  sort  of  panicky  to  Vee,  half 
expectin'  to  find  her  blushin'  painful  or  signal- 
in'  me  to  clear  out.  Nothing  like  that  from 
Vee,  though. 

"Not  ours,  Torchy?"  says  she,  slidin'  out 
from  behind  the  tea-table  and  rushin'  over. 
"Not  our  very  own?" 

"Uh-huh!"  says  I.     "Just  picked  'em." 

At  which  the  other  caller  joins  in  unexpected. 

"From  your  own  garden?"  says  she.  "How 
interesting!  Oh,  do  show  them  to  me." 

"Why,  sure,"  says  I.  "Guess  we're  doin' 
our  bit,  ain't  we?" 

She's  a  wide,  dumpy-built  old  girl,  and 
dressed  sort  of  freaky.  Also  her  line  of  talk 
is  a  kind  of  purry,  throaty  gush  that's  almost 
too  soothin'  to  be  true.  But  anybody  who 
makes  only  half  a  bluff  at  being  interested  in 


99 

our  garden  wins  us.  And  not  until  she's  in 
spected  our  first  string-beans  through  her  gold 
lorgnette,  and  remarked  twice  more  how  won 
derful  it  was  for  us  to  raise  anything  like  that, 
does  it  occur  to  Vee  to  introduce  me  proper  to 
both  ladies. 

The  tall,  stiff-necked  dame  turns  out  to  be 
Mrs.  Pemberton  Foote.  Honest!  Could  you 
blame  her  for  bein'  jarred  when  I  come  bouncin' 
in  with  garden  truck? 

Think  of  it!  Why,  she's  one  of  the  super 
tax  brigade  and  moves  among  the  smartest  of 
the  smart-setters.  And  Pemmy,  he's  on  the 
polo  team,  you  know. 

Oh,  reg'lar  people,  the  Pembroke  Pootes  are. 
And  the  very  fact  that  Mrs.  Foote  is  here  call- 
in'  on  Vee  ought  to  have  me  thrilled  to  the 
bone. 

Yet  all  I  got  sense  enough  to  do  is  wave 
half-grown  string-beans  at  her,  and  then  sit  by 
gawpy,  balancin'  a  cup  of  tea  on  my  knee,  and 
watch  her  apply  the  refrigeratin'  process  to  the 
dumpy  old  girl  whose  name  I  didn't  quite  catch. 
Say,  but  she  does  it  thorough  and  artistic. 
Only  two  or  three  times  did  the  dumpy  one  try 
to  kick  in  on  the  chat,  and  when  she  does,  Mrs. 
Pemmy  rolls  them  glittery  eyes  towards  her 
slow,  givin'  her  the  up-and-down  like  she  was 


100         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

some  kind  of  fat  worm  that  had  strayed  in 
from  the  cucumber  bed. 

Can't  these  women  throw  the  harpoon  into 
each  other  ruthless,  though?  Why,  you  could 
see  that  old  girl  fairly  squirm  when  she  got 
one  of  them  assault-and-battery  glances.  Her 
under  lip  would  quiver  a  bit,  she'd  wink  hard 
three  or  four  times,  and  then  she'd  sort  of  col 
lapse,  smotherin'  a  sigh  and  not  finishin'  what 
she'd  started  out  to  say.  She  did  want  to  be 
so  folksy,  too. 

Course,  she's  an  odd-lookin'  party,  with  that 
bucket-shaped  lid  decorated  with  pale  green 
satin  fruit,  and  the  piles  of  thick  blondine  hair 
that  was  turnin'  gray,  and  her  foolish  big  eyes 
with  the  puffy  rolls  underneath  and  the  crows  '- 
feet  in  the  corners.  And  of  course  anybody 
with  ankles  suggestin'  piano  legs  really  should 
n't  go  in  for  high-tide  skirts  and  white  silk 
stockin's  with  black  butterflies  worked  on  'em. 
Should  they? 

Still,  she'd  raved  over  our  string-beans,  so 
when  she  makes  a  last  fluttery  try  at  jimmyin' 
her  way  into  the  conversation,  and  Mrs.  Foote 
squelches  her  prompt  again,  and  she  gives  up 
for  good,  it's  me  jumpin'  snappy  to  tow  her  out 
and  tuck  her  in  the  limousine.  Havin'  made  my 
escape,  I  stays  outside  until  after  Mrs.  Pemmy 


BACK  WITH  CLARA  BELLE       101 

has  gone  too,  which  don't  happen  for  near  half 
an  hour  later.  But  when  I  hears  the  front  door 
shut  on  her,  I  sidles  in  at  the  back. 

"Zowie!"  says  I.  "You  must  have  made 
more  of  a  hit  with  our  swell  neighbor  than  I 
did,Vee." 

Vee  smiles  quizzin'  and  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  says  she.  "I  almost  feel 
as  though  we  had  been  visited  by  the  Probation 
Officer,  or  someone  like  that." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  says  I. 

"Of  course,"  she  goes  on,  "Mrs.  Poote  did 
not  actually  say  that  we  were  on  trial  so 
cially,  but  she  hi:  ted  as  much.  And  she  made 
it  quite  plain  t;iat  unless  we  got  started  in 
the  right  set  our  case  would  be  utterly  hope 
less." 

"Just  think  of  that!"  says  I.  "Real  sweet 
of  her,  eh?  Sort  of  inspector  general,  is  she? 
You  should  have  asked  her  to  show  her  badge, 
though." 

"Oh,  there's  no  doubt  that  she  speaks  with 
authority,"  says  Vee.  "She  wasn't  snippy 
about  it,  either.  And  chiefly  she  was  trying  to 
warn  me  against  Mrs.  Ben  Tupper." 

"The  old  girl  with  the  pelican  chin  and  the 
rovin '  eyes  ? "  I  asks.  ' '  What 's  the  matter  with 
her  besides  her  looks?" 


102         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOKCHY 

Well,  accordin'  to  Mrs.  Pemmy  Foote,  there 
was  a  lot.  She  had  a  past,  for  one  thing.  She 
was  a  pushing,  presumptuous  person,  for  an 
other.  And,  besides,  this  Benjamin  Tupper 
party — the  male  of  the  species — was  wholly 
impossible. 

"You  know  who  he  is,"  adds  Vee.  "The  tab 
let  man." 

"What!"  says  I.  "  ' Tupper 's  Tablets  for 
Indigestion — on  Everybody's  Tongue.'  Him?" 

Vee  nods.  "And  they  live  in  that  barny 
stucco  house  just  as  you  turn  off  Sagamore 
Boulevard — the  one  with  the  hideous  red-tiled 
roof  and  the  concrete  lions  in  front." 

"Goodness  Agnes!"  says  I.  "Folks  have 
been  indicted  for  less  than  that.  I've  seen  Tup 
per,  too;  someone  pointed  him  out  goin'  in  on 
the  express  only  the  other  mornin'.  Looks  like 
a  returned  Nihilist  who  'd  been  nominated  in  one 
of  the  back  wards  of  Petrograd  to  run  for  the 
Duma  on  a  free-vodka  platform.  He's  got  wiry 
whiskers  that  he  must  trim  with  a  pair  of  tin- 
shears,  tufts  in  his  ears,  and  the  general  build 
of  a  performin'  chimpanzee.  Oh,  he's  a  rare 
one,  Tupper." 

"Then,"  says  Vee,  sort  of  draggy,  "I — I 
suppose  Mrs.  Foote  is  right.  It's  too  bad,  for 
that  Mrs.  Tupper  did  seem  such  a  friendly  old 


BACK  WITH  CLARA  BELLE       103 

soul.  And  I  shall  feel  so  snobbish  if  I  don't 
return  her  call." 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "I  don't  see  why  Mrs. 
Pemmy  couldn't  let  you  find  out  about  her 
for  yourself.  Even  if  the  old  girl  don't 
belong,  what's  the  use  bein'  so  rough  with 
her?" 

"Do  you  know,  Torchy,"  says  Vee,  "I  felt 
that  way  about  it  when  Mrs.  Foote  was  snub 
bing  her.  And  yet — well,  I  wish  I  knew  just 
what  to  do." 

' '  Clean  out  of  my  line, ' '  says  I. 

I  expect  it  was  the  roses  that  set  me  mullin' 
the  case  over  again.  They  was  sent  over  for 
Vee  a  couple  of  days  later — half  a  dozen  great 
busters,  like  young  cabbages,  with  stems  a  yard 
long.  They  come  with  the  compliments  of  Mrs. 
Ben  Tupper. 

"I  simply  couldn't  send  them  back,"  says 
Vee;  "and  yet — 

"I  get  you,"  says  I.  "But  don't  worry.  Let 
the  thing  ride  a  while.  I  got  an  idea." 

It  wasn't  anything  staggerin'.  It  had  just 
struck  me  that  if  Vee  had  to  hand  out  any 
social  smears  she  ought  to  do  it  on  her  own 
dope,  and  not  accordin'  to  Mrs.  Pemmy  Foote 's 
say-so.  Which  is  why  I  begins  pumpin'  infor 
mation  out  of  anybody  that  came  handy.  Goin' 


104         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

into  town  next  mornin',  I  tackled  three  or  four 
on  the  8 : 03  in  an  offhand  way. 

Oh,  yes,  the  Ben  Tuppers!  Business  of 
hunchin'  the  shoulders.  No,  they  didn't  belong 
to  the  Country  Club,  nor  the  Hunt  Association, 
nor  figure  on  the  Library  or  Hospital  boards, 
or  anything  else.  In  fact,  they  don't  mingle 
much.  Hadn't  made  the  grade.  Barred? 
We-e-ell,  in  a  way,  perhaps.  Why?  Oh,  there 
was  Mrs.  Ben.  Wasn't  she  enough?  An  ex- 
actress  with  two  or  three  hubbys  in  the  dis 
card!  Could  she  expect  people  to  swallow 
that? 

Only  one  gent,  though,  had  anything  definite 
to  offer.  He's  a  middle-aged  sport  that  seems 
to  make  a  specialty  of  wearin'  checked  suits 
and  yellow  gloves.  He  chuckles  when  I  men 
tions  Mrs.  Tupper. 

"Grand  old  girl,  Clara  Belle,"  says  he. 

"Eh?"  says  I.    "Shoot  the  rest." 

"Couldn't  think  of  it,  son,"  says  he. 
"You're  too  young.  But  in  my  day  Clara 
Belle  Kinney  was  some  queen." 

And  that's  all  I  can  get  out  of  him  except 
more  chuckles.  I  files  away  the  name,  though ; 
and  that  afternoon,  while  we  was  waitin'  for  a 
quorum  of  directors  to  straggle  into  the  Gen 
eral  Offices,  I  springs  it  on  Old  Hickory. 


BACK  WITH  CLAEA  BELLE       105 

"Mr.  Ellins,"  says  I,  "did  you  ever  know  of 
a  Clara  Belle  Kinney?" 

"Wha-a-at?"  he  gasps,  almost  swallowin' 
his  cigar.  "Listen  to  that,  Mason.  Here's  a 
young  innocent  asking  if  we  ever  knew  Clara 
Belle  Kinney.  Did  we?" 

And  old  K.  W.  Mason,  what  does  he  do  but 
throw  back  his  shiny  dome,  open  his  mouth, 
and  roar  out : 

"  Yure  right  fut  is  crazy, 
Yure  left  fut  is  lazy, 
But  if  ye'll  be  aisy 

I'll  teach  ye  to  waltz!  " 

After  which  them  two  old  cut-ups  wink  at 
each  other  rakish  and  slap  their  knees.  All  of 
which  ain't  so  illuminatin'.  But  they  keep  on, 
mentionin'  Koster  Bial's  and  the  Cork  Koom, 
until  I  can  patch  together  quite  a  sketch  of  Mrs. 
Tupper's  early  career. 

Seems  she'd  made  her  first  hit  in  this  old- 
time  concert-hall  when  she  was  a  sweet  young 
thing  in  her  teens.  One  of  her  naughty  stunts 
was  kickin'  her  slipper  into  an  upper  box,  and 
gettin'  it  tossed  back  with  a  mash  note  in  it,  or 
maybe  a  twenty-dollar  bill.  Then  she'd  gradu 
ated  into  comic  opera. 

"Was  there  ever  a  Katishaw  like  her?"  de- 


106         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

mands  Old  Hickory  of  K.  W.,  who  responds  by 
hummin'  husky: 

"  I  dote  upon  a  tiger 
From  the  Congo  or  the  Niger, 
Especially  when  lashing  of  his  tail." 

And,  while  they  don't  go  into  details,  I  gath 
ered  that  they'd  been  Clara  Belle  fans — had 
sent  her  orchids  on  openin'  nights,  and  maybe 
had  set  up  wine  suppers  for  her  and  her  friends. 
They  knew  about  a  couple  of  her  matrimonial 
splurges.  One  was  with  her  manager,  of 
course;  the  next  was  a  young  broker  whose 
fam'ly  got  him  to  break  it  off.  After  that 
they'd  lost  track  of  her. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  says  Old  Hickory,  "that 
I  heard  she  had  married  someone  in  Buffalo,  or 
Rochester,  and  had  quit  the  stage.  A  patent 
medicine  chap,  I  think  he  was,  who'd  made  a 
lot  of  money  out  of  something  or  other.  I  won 
der  what  has  become  of  her!" 

That  was  my  cue,  all  right,  but  I  passes  it 
up.  I  wasn't  talkin'  just  then;  I  was  listenin'. 

"Ah-h-h!"  goes  on  Mr.  Mason,  foldin'  his 
nands  over  his  forward  sponson  and  rollin'  his 
eyes  sentimental.  "Dear  Clara  Belle!  I  say, 
Ellins,  wouldn't  you  like  to  hear  her  sing  that 
MacFadden  song  once  more?" 


BACK  WITH  CLAEA  BELLE       107 

"I'd  give  fifty  dollars,"  says  Old  Hickory. 

"I'd  make  it  a  hundred  if  she'd  follow  it  with 
'0  Promise  Me,'  "  says  K.  W.  "What  was 
her  record — six  hundred  nights  on  Broadway, 
wasn't  it?" 

Say,  they  went  on  reminiscin'  so  long,  it's  a 
wonder  the  monthly  meetin'  ever  got  started  at 
all.  I  might  have  forgot  them  hot-air  bids  of 
theirs,  too,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  something  Vee 
announces  that  night  across  the  dinner-table. 

Seems  that  Mrs.  Robert  Ellins  had  been  rung 
into  managin'  one  of  these  war  benefit  stunts, 
and  she's  decided  to  use  their  new  east  terrace 
for  an  outdoor  stage  and  the  big  drawin'-room 
it  opens  off  from  as  an  auditorium.  You  know, 
Mrs.  Robert  used  to  give  violin  recitals  and  do 
concert  work  herself,  so  she  ain't  satisfied  with 
amateur  talent.  Besides,  she  knows  so  many 
professional  people. 

"And  who  do  you  think  she  is  to  have  on  the 
program!"  demands  Vee.  "Farrar!" 

"Aw,  come!"  says  I. 

"And  perhaps  Mischa  Elman,"  adds  Vee. 
"Isn't  that  thrilling!" 

I  admits  that  it  is. 

"But  say,"  I  goes  on,  "with  them  big  names 
on  the  bill,  what  does  she  expect  to  tax  people 
for  the  best  seats!" 


108         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

Vee  says  how  they'd  figured  they  might  ask 
ten  dollars  for  a  few  choice  chairs. 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "That  won't  get  you  far. 
Why  don't  you  soak  'em  proper?" 

"But  how!"  asks  Vee. 

"You  put  in  a  bald-headed  row,"  says  I, 
"and  I'll  find  you  a  party  who'll  fill  it  at  a 
hundred  a  throw." 

Vee  stares  at  me  like  she  thought  I'd  been 
touched  with  the  heat,  and  wants  to  know  who. 

"Clara  Belle  Kinney,"  says  I. 

"Why,  I  never  heard  of  any  such  person," 
says  she. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have,"  says  I.  "Alias  Mrs. 
Ben  Tupper." 

Course,  I  had  some  job  convincin'  her  I 
wasn't  joshin';  and  even  after  I'd  sketched  out 
the  whole  story,  and  showed  her  that  Clara 
Belle's  past  wasn't  anything  to  really  shudder 
over,  Vee  is  still  doubtful. 

"But  can  she  sing  now?"  she  asks. 

"What's  the  odds,"  says  I,  "if  a  lot  of 
them  old-timers  are  willin'  to  pay  to  hear  her 
try!" 

Vee  shakes  her  head  and  suggests  that  we 
go  up  and  talk  it  over  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Robert.  Which  we  does. 

' '  But  if  she  has  been  off  the  stage  for  twenty 


years,"  suggests  Mrs.  Eobert,  " perhaps  she 
wouldn't  attempt  it." 

"I'll  bet  she  would  for  Vee,"  says  I.  "Any 
way,  she  wouldn't  feel  sore  at  being  asked. 
And  if  you  could  sting  a  bunch  of  twenty  or 
thirty  for  a  hundred  apiece 

"Just  fancy!"  says  Mrs.  Eobert,  drawin'  in 
a  long  breath  and  doin'  rapid-fire  mental  arith 
metic.  "Verona,  let's  drive  right  over  and  see 
her  at  once." 

They're  some  hustlers,  that  pair.  All  I  has 
to  do  is  map  out  the  scheme,  and  they  goes  after 
it  with  a  rush. 

And  say,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  was  a  per 
fectly  good  charity  concert,  judged  by  the  box- 
office  receipts  or  any  way  you  want  to  size  it 
up.  Bein'  the  official  press-agent,  who's  got  a 
better  right  to  admit  it? 

True,  Elman  didn't  show  up,  but  his  alibi 
was  sound.  And  not  until  the  last  minute  was 
we  sure  whether  the  fair  Geraldine  would  get 
there  or  not.  But  my  contribution  to  the  head- 
liners  was  there  from  the  first  tap  of  the  bell. 

Vee  says  she  actually  wept  on  her  shoulder 
when  the  proposition  was  sprung  on  her. 
Seems  she'd  been  livin'  in  Harbor  Hills  for 
nearly  three  years  without  havin'  been  let  in 
on  a  thing — with  nobody  callin '  on  her,  or  even 


110         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

noddin'  as  she  drove  by.  Most  of  her  neigh 
bors  was  a  lot  younger,  folks  who  barely  re 
membered  that  there  had  been  such  a  party  as 
Clara  Belle  Kinney,  and  who  couldn't  have 
told  whether  she'd  been  a  singer  or  a  bare 
back  rider.  They  only  knew  her  as  a  dumpy 
freakish  dressed  old  girl  whose  drugged  hair 
was  turnin'  gray. 

"Of  course,"  she  says,  sort  of  timid  and 
trembly,  "I  have  kept  up  my  singing  as  well 
as  I  could.  Mr.  Tupper  likes  to  have  me.  But 
I  know  my  voice  isn't  what  it  was  once.  It's 
dear  of  you  to  ask  me,  though,  and — and  I'll 
do  my  best." 

I  don't  take  any  credit  for  fillin'  that  double 
row  of  wicker  chairs  we  put  down  front  and 
had  the  nerve  to  ask  that  hold-up  price  for. 
When  the  word  was  passed  around  that  Clara 
Belle  Kinney  was  to  be  among  the  performers, 
they  almost  mobbed  me  for  tickets.  Why,  I 
collected  from  two-thirds  of  the  Corrugated 
directors  without  turnin'  a  hand,  and  for  two 
days  there  about  all  I  did  was  answer  'phone 
calls  from  Broad  Street  and  the  clubs — brokers, 
bank  presidents,  and  so  on,  who  wanted  to  know 
if  there  was  any  left. 

A  fine  bunch  of  silver-tops  they  was,  too, 
when  we  got  'em  all  lined  up.  You  wouldn't 


BACK  WITH  CLAEA  BELLE       111 

have  suspected  it  of  some  of  them  dignified  old 
scouts,  either.  Back  of  'em,  fillin  every  corner 
of  the  long  room  and  spillin'  out  into  the  big 
hall,  was  the  top  crust  of  our  local  smart  set, 
come  to  hear  Farrar  at  close  range. 

Yep,  Geraldine  made  quite  a  hit.  Nothing 
strange  about  that.  And  that  piece  from  "Ma 
dame  Butterfly"  she  gave  just  brought  'em 
right  up  on  their  toes.  But  say,  you  should 
hear  what  breaks  loose  when  it's  announced 
that  the  third  number  will  be  an  old  favorite 
revival  by  Clara  Belle  Kinney.  That's  all  the 
name  we  gave.  What  if  most  of  the  audience 
was  simply  starin'  puzzled  and  stretchin'  their 
necks  to  see  who  was  comin'  Them  old  boys 
down  front  seemed  to  know  what  they  was 
howlin'  about. 

Yes,  Clara  Belle  does  show  up  a  bit  husky  in 
evenin'  dress.  Talk  about  elbow  dimples !  And 
I  was  wishin'  she'd  forgot  to  do  her  hair  that 
antique  way,  all  piled  up  on  her  head,  with  a 
few  coy  ringlets  over  one  ear.  But  she  'd  land 
scaped  her  facial  scenery  artistic,  and  she  sure 
does  know  how  to  roll  them  big  eyes  of  hers. 

I  didn't  much  enjoy  listenin'  through  them 
first  few  bars,  though.  There  wasn't  merely  a 
crack  here  and  there.  Her  voice  went  to  a 
complete  smash  at  times,  besides  bein'  weak  and 


112         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

wabbly.  It's  like  listenin'  to  the  ghost  of  a 
voice.  I  heard  a  few  titters  from  the  back 
rows. 

But  them  old  boys  don't  seem  to  mind.  It 
was  a  voice  comin'  to  them  from  'way  back  in 
the  '90 's.  And  when  she  struggles  through  the 
first  verse  of  "0  Promise  Me,"  and  pauses  to 
get  her  second  wind,  maybe  they  don't  give  her 
a  hand.  That  seemed  to  pep  her  up  a  lot.  She 
gets  a  better  grip  on  the  high  notes,  the  tremolo 
effect  wears  off,  and  she  goes  to  it  like  a  winner. 
Begins  to  get  the  crowd  with  her,  too.  Why, 
say,  even  Farrar  stands  up  and  leads  in  the  call 
for  an  encore.  She  ain't  alone. 

"MacFadden!  MacFadden!"  K.  W.  Mason 
is  shoutin'. 

So  in  a  minute  more  Clara  Belle,  her  eyes 
shinin',  has  swung  into  that  raggy  old  tune,  and 
when  she  gets  to  the  chorus  she  beckons  to  the 
front  rows  and  says :  ' '  Now,  all  together,  boys ! 

"  Wan — two — three ! 
Balance  like  me " 

Did  they  come  in  on  it?  Say,  they  roared  it 
out  like  so  many  young  college  hicks  riotin' 
around  the  campus  after  a  session  at  a  rath 
skeller.  You  should  have  seen  Old  Hickory 


BACK  WITH  CLARA  BELLE       113 

standin'  out  front  with  his  arms  wavin'  and  his 
face  red. 

Then  they  demands  some  of  the  Katishaw 
stuff,  and  "Comrades,"  and  "Little  Annie 
Eooney."  And  with  every  encore  Clara  Belle 
seems  to  shake  off  five  or  ten  years,  until  you 
could  almost  see  what  a  footlight  charmer  she 
must  have  been. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all  Vee  gives  me  the  nudge. 

"Do  look  at  Mr.  Tupper,  will  you?" 

Yes,  he's  sittin'  over  in  a  corner,  with  his 
white  shirt-front  bulgin',  his  neck  stretched  for 
ward  eager,  and  his  big  hairy  paws  grippin'  the 
chair-back  in  front.  And  hanged  if  a  drop  of 
brine  ain't  tricklin'  down  one  side  of  his  nose. 

"Gosh!"  says  I.  "His  emotions  are  leakin' 
into  his  whiskers.  Maybe  the  old  boy  is  human, 
after  all." 

A  minute  later,  as  I  slides  easy  out  of  my 
end  seat,  Vee  asks : 

"Where  are  you  going,  Torchy?" 

"I  want  a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Pemmy  Foote's 
face,  that's  all,"  says  I. 


CHAPTER  VIH 

WHEN   TOBCHY  GOT   THE   CALL 

No,  I  ain't  said  much  about  it  before.  There 
are  some  things  you're  apt  to  keep  to  yourself, 
specially  the  ones  that  root  deep.  And  I'll 
admit  that  at  first  there  I  don't  quite  know 
where  I  was  at.  But  as  affairs  got  messier  and 
messier,  and  the  U-boats  got  busier,  and  I  heard 
some  first-hand  details  of  what  had  happened 
to  the  Belgians — well,  I  got  mighty  restless.  I 
expect  I  indulged  in  more  serious  thought  stuff 
than  I'd  ever  been  guilty  of. 

You  see,  it  was  along  back  when  we  were  get- 
tin'  our  first  close-ups  of  the  big  scrap — some 
of  our  boats  sunk,  slinkers  reported  off  Sandy 
Hook,  bomb  plots  shown  up,  and  Papa  Joffre 
over  here  soundin'  the  S.  0.  S.  earnest. 

Then  there  was  Mr.  Robert  joinm'  the  Naval 
Reserves,  and  two  young  hicks  from  the  bond 
room  who'd  volunteered.  We'd  had  postals 
from  'em  at  the  trainin'  camp.  Even  Vee  was 
busy  with  a  first-aid  class,  learnin'  how  to  tie 
bandages  and  put  on  splints. 

114 


WHEN  TORCHY  GOT  THE  CALL     115 

So  private  seccing  seemed  sort  of  tame  and 
useless — like  keepin'  on  sprinklin'  the  lawn 
after  your  chimney  was  bein'  struck  by  light- 
nin'.  I  felt  like  I  ought  to  be  gettin'  in  the 
game  somehow.  Anyway,  it  seemed  as  if  it  was 
my  ante. 

Not  that  I'd  been  rushed  off  my  feet  by  all 
this  buntin'-wavin'  or  khaki- wearin*.  I'm  no 
panicky  Old  Glory  trail-hitter.  Nor  I  didn't 
lug  around  the  idea  I  was  the  missin'  hero  who 
was  to  romp  through  the  barbed  wire,  stamp 
Hindenburg's  whiskers  in  the  mud,  and  lead  the 
Allies  across  the  Rhine.  I  didn't  even  kid  my 
self  I  could  swim  out  and  kick  a  hole  in  a  sub 
marine,  or  do  the  darin'  aviator  act  after  a 
half-hour  lesson  at  Mineola. 

In  fact,  I  suspected  that  sheddin'  the  enemy's 
gore  wasn't  much  in  my  line.  I  knew  I  should 
dislike  quittin'  the  hay  at  dawn  to  sneak 
out  and  get  mixed  up  with  half  a  bushel 
of  impetuous  scrap-iron.  Still,  if  it  had 
to  be  done,  why  not  me  as  well  as  the 
next  party? 

I'd  been  meanin'  to  talk  it  over  with  Vee — 
sort  of  hint  around,  anyway,  and  see  how  she  'd 
take  it.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  never  could 
seem  to  find  just  the  right  openin'  until,  there 
one  night  after  dinner,  as  she  finishes  a  new 


116         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

piece  she's  tryin'  over  on  the  piano,  I  wanders 
up  beside  her  and  starts  absent-minded  tearin' 
little  bits  off  a  corner  of  the  music. 

"Torchy!"  she  protests.  "What  an  absurd 
thing  to  do." 

"Eh?"  says  I,  twistin'  it  into  a  cornucopia. 
"But  you  know  I  can't  go  on  warmin'  the  bench 
like  this." 

She  stares  at  me  puzzled  for  a  second. 

"Meaning  what,  for  instance?"  she  asks. 

"I  got  to  go  help  swat  the  Hun,"  says  I. 

The  flickery  look  in  them  gray  eyes  of  hers 
steadies  down,  and  she  reaches  out  for  one  of 
my  hands.  That's  all.  No  jumpy  emotions — 
not  even  a  lip  quiver. 

"Must  you?"  says  she,  quiet. 

"I  can't  take  it  out  in  wearin'  a  button  or 
hirin'  someone  to  hoe  potatoes  in  the  back  lot," 
says  I. 

"No,"  says  she. 

"Auntie  would  come,  I  suppose?"  says  I. 

Vee  nods. 

"And  with  Leon  here,"  I  goes  on,  "and  Mrs. 
Battou,  you  could " 

"Yes,  I  could  get  along,"  she  breaks  in. 
"But— but  when?" 

"Right  away,"  says  I.  "As  soon  as  they  can 
use  me." 


WHEN  TOECHY  GOT  THE  CALL     117 

"You'll  start  training  for  a  commission, 
then?"  she  asks. 

"Not  me,"  says  I.  "I'd  be  poor  enough  as 
a  private,  but  maybe  I'd  help  fill  in  one  of  the 
back  rows.  I  don't  know  much  about  it.  I'll 
look  it  up  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?  Oh!"  says  Vee,  with  just  the 
suspicion  of  a  break  in  her  voice. 

And  that's  all  we  had  to  say  about  it.  Every 
word.  You'd  thought  we'd  exhausted  the  sub 
ject,  or  got  the  tongue  cramp.  But  I  expect 
we  each  had  a  lot  of  thoughts  that  didn't  get 
registered.  I  know  I  did.  And  next  mornin' 
the  breakaway  came  sort  of  hard. 

"I — I  know  just  how  you  feel  about  it,"  says 
Vee. 

"I'm  glad  somebody  does,  then,"  says  I. 

Puttin'  the  proposition  up  to  Old  Hickory 
was  different.  He  shoots  a  quick  glance  at  me 
from  under  them  shaggy  eyebrows,  bites  into 
his  cigar  savage,  and  grunts  discontented. 

"You  are  exempt,  you  know,"  says  he. 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "If  tags  came  with  mar 
riage  licenses  I  might  wear  one  on  my  watch- 
fob  to  show,  I  expect." 

' '  Huh ! ' '  says  he.  ' '  It  seems  to  me  that  rapid- 
fire  brain  of  yours  might  be  better  utilized  than 
by  hiding  it  under  a  trench  helmet." 


118         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCIIY 

"  Speedy  thinkers  seem  to  be  a  drug  on  the 
market  just  now,"  says  I.  "Anyway,  I  feel  like 
it  was  up  to  me  to  deliver  something — I  can't 
say  just  what.  But  campin'  behind  a  roll-top 
here  on  the  nineteenth  floor  ain't  going  to  help 
much,  is  it?" 

' '  Oh,  well,  if  you  have  the  fever ! ' '  says  he. 

And  half  an  hour  later  I've  pushed  in  past 
the  flag  and  am  answerin'  questions  while  the 
sergeant  fills  out  the  blank. 

Maybe  you  can  guess  I  ain't  in  any  frivolous 
mood.  I  don't  believe  I  thought  I  was  about 
to  push  back  the  invader,  or  turn  the  tide  for 
civilization.  Neither  was  I  lookin'  on  this  as  a 
sportin'  flier  or  a  larky  excursion  that  I  was 
goin'  to  indulge  in  at  public  expense.  My  idea 
was  that  there 'd  been  a  general  call  for  such  as 
me,  and  that  I  was  comin'  across.  I  was  more 
or  less  sober  about  it. 

They  didn't  seem  much  impressed  at  the  re- 
cruitin'  station.  Course,  you  couldn't  expect 
the  sergeant  to  get  thrilled  over  every  party 
that  drifted  in.  He'd  been  there  for  weeks,  I 
suppose,  answerin'  the  same  fool  questions  over 
and  over,  knowin'  all  the  time  that  half  of  them 
that  came  in  was  bluffin'  and  that  a  big  per 
cent,  of  the  others  wouldn't  do. 

But  this  other  party  with  the  zippy  waist- 


WHEN  TOECHY  GOT  THE  CALL     119 

line,  the  swellin'  chest,  and  the  nifty  shoulder- 
straps — why  should  he  glare  at  me  in  that  cold, 
suspicious  way?  I  wasn't  tryin'  to  break  into 
the  army  with  felonious  intent.  How  could  he 
be  sure,  just  from  a  casual  glance,  that  I  was 
such  vicious  scum? 

Oh,  yes ;  I've  figured  out  since  that  he  didn't 
mean  more'n  half  of  it,  or  couldn't  help  lookin' 
at  civilians  that  way  after  four  years  at  West 
Point,  or  thought  he  had  to.  But  that's  what 
I  get  handed  to  me  when  I've  dropped  all  the 
little  things  that  seemed  important  to  me  and 
walks  in  to  chuck  what  I  had  to  offer  Uncle 
Sam  on  the  recruitin'  table. 

Some  kind  of  inspectin'  officer,  I've  found 
out  he  was,  makin'  the  rounds  to  see  that  the 
sergeants  didn't  loaf  on  the  job.  And,  just  to 
show  that  no  young  patriot  in  a  last  year's 
Panama  and  a  sport-cut  suit  could  slip  any 
thing  over  on  him,  he  shoots  in  a  few  crisp 
questions  on  his  own  account. 

" Married,  you  say!"  says  he.  " Since 
when?  " 

"Oh,  this  century,"  says  I.  "Last  Febru 
ary,  to  get  it  nearer." 

He  sniffs  disagreeable  without  sayin'  why. 
Also  he  takes  a  hand  when  it  comes  to  testin' 
me  to  see  whether  I'm  club-footed  or  spavined. 


120         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

Course,  I'm  no  perfect  male  like  you  see  in  the 
knit  underwear  ads,  but  I've  got  the  usual  num 
ber  of  toes  and  teeth,  my  wind  is  fairly  good, 
and  I  don't  expect  my  arteries  have  begun  to 
harden  yet.  He  listens  to  my  heart  action 
and  measures  my  chest  expansion.  Then 
I  had  to  name  the  different  colors  and 
squint  through  a  tube  at  some  black  dots 
on  a  card. 

And  the  further  we  went  the  more  he  scowled. 
Finally  he  shakes  his  head  at  the  sergeant. 

4 'Rejected,"  says  he. 

"Eh?"  says  I.  "You — you  don't  mean  I'm 
— turned  down?" 

He  nods.  "Underweight,  and  your  eyes  don't 
focus,"  says  he  snappy.  Here's  your  card. 
That's  all." 

Yes,  it  was  a  jolt.  I  expect  I  stood  there 
blinkin'  stupid  at  him  for  a  minute  or  so  before 
I  had  sense  enough  to  drift  out  on  the  sidewalk. 
And  I  might  as  well  admit  I  was  feelin'  mighty 
low.  I  didn't  know  whether  to  hunt  up  the 
nearest  hospital,  or  sit  down  on  the  curb  and 
wait  until  they  came  after  me  with  the 
stretcher-cart.  Anyway,  I  knew  I  must  be  a 
physical  wreck.  And  to  think  I  hadn't  sus 
pected  it  before! 

Somehow  I  dragged  back  to  the  office,  and  a 


WHEN  TORCHY  GOT  THE  CALL     123 

the  eight-three.  I  didn't  do  any  gloatin'  over 
the  war  news.  I  didn't  join  any  of  the  volun 
teer  boards  of  strategy  that  met  every  mornin' 
to  tell  each  other  how  the  subs  ought  to  be  sup 
pressed,  or  what  Haig  should  be  doin'  on  the 
West  front.  I  even  stopped  wearin'  an  enam 
eled  flag  in  my  buttonhole.  If  that  was  all  I 
could  do,  I  wouldn't  fourflush. 

The  Corrugated  was  handlin'  a  lot  of  war 
contracts,  too.  Course,  we  was  only  gettin'  our 
ten  per  cent.,  and  from  some  we'd  subbed  out 
not  even  that.  It  didn't  strike  me  there  was 
any  openin'  for  me  until  I'd  heard  Mr.  Ellins, 
for  about  the  fourth  time  that  week,  start  beef- 
in'  about  the  kind  of  work  we  was  gettin'  done. 

"But  ain't  it  all  0.  K.'d  by  government  in 
spectors'?"  I  asks. 

"Precisely  why  I  am  suspicious,"  says  he. 
"Not  three  per  cent,  turned  back!  And  on 
rush  work  that's  too  good  to  be  true.  Looks 
to  me  like  careless  inspecting — or  worse.  Yet 
every  man  I've  sent  out  has  brought  in  a  clean 
bill;  even  for  the  Wonder  Motors  people,  who 
have  that  sub-contract  for  five  hundred  tanks. 
And  I  wouldn't  trust  that  crowd  to  pass  the 
hat  for  an  orphans'  home.  I  wish  I  knew  of  a 
man  who  could — could By  the  Great  Isos 
celes  !  Torchy ! ' ' 


124         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

I  knew  I  was  elected  when  he  first  begun 
squintin'  at  me  that  way.  But  I  couldn't  see 
where  I'd  be  such  a  wonderful  find. 

"A  hot  lot  I  know  about  buildin'  armored 
motor-trucks,  Mr.  Ellins,"  says  I.  "They 
could  feed  me  anything." 

"You  let  'em,"  says  he;  "and  meanwhile 
you  unlimber  that  high-tension  intellect  of  yours 
and  see  what  you  can  pick  up.  Remember,  I 
shall  expect  results  from  you,  young  man. 
When  can  you  start  for  Cleveland!  To-night, 
eh?  Good !  And  just  note  this :  It  isn't  merely 
the  Corrugated  Trust  you  are  representing: 
it's  Uncle  Sam  and  the  Allies  generally.  And 
if  anything  shoddy  is  being  passed,  you  hunt 
it  out.  Understand?" 

Yep.  I  did.  And  I'll  admit  I  was  some 
thrilled  with  the  idea.  But  I  felt  like  a  Boy 
Scout  being  sent  to  round  up  a  gang  of  gun- 
fighters.  I  skips  home,  though,  packs  my  bag, 
and  climbs  aboard  the  night  express. 

When  I'd  finally  located  the  Wonder  works, 
and  had  my  credentials  read  by  everyone,  from 
the  rookie  sentry  at  the  gate  to  the  Assistant 
General  Manager,  and  they  was  convinced  I'd 
come  direct  from  Old  Hickory  Ellins,  they 
starts  passin'  out  the  smooth  stuff.  Oh,  yes! 
Certainly!  Anything  special  I  wished  to  see? 


"Thanks,"  says  I.    "I'll  go  right  through." 

"But  we  have  four  acres  of  shops,  you 
know,"  suggests  the  A.  G.  M.,  smilin'  indul 
gent. 

"Maybe  I  can  do  an  acre  a  day,"  says  I. 
"I  got  lots  of  time." 

"That's  the  spirit,"  says  he,  clappin'  me 
friendly  on  the  shoulder.  "Walter,  call  in  Mr. 
Marvin. ' ' 

He  was  some  grand  little  demonstrator, 
Mr.  Marvin — one  of  these  round-faced,  pink- 
cheeked,  chunky  built  young  gents,  who  was  as 
chummy  and  as  entertainin'  from  the  first 
handshake  as  if  we'd  been  room-mates  at  col 
lege.  I  can't  say  how  well  posted  he  was  on 
what  was  goin'  on  in  the  different  departments 
he  hustled  me  through,  but  he  knew  enough  to 
smother  me  with  machinery  details. 

"Now,  here  we  have  a  battery  of  six  hog 
ging  machines,"  he'd  say.  "They  cut  the 
gears,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes,"  I'd  say,  tryin'  to  look  wise. 

It  was  that  way  all  through  the  trip.  I  saw 
two  or  three  thousand  sweaty  men  in  smeared 
overalls  and  sleeveless  undershirts  putterin' 
around  lathes  and  things  that  whittled  shavings 
off  shiny  steel  bars,  or  hammered  red-hot 
chunks  of  it  into  different  shapes,  or  bit  holes 


126         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

in  great  sheets  of  steel.  I  watched  electric 
cranes  the  size  of  trolley  cars  juggle  chunks  of 
metal  that  weighed  tons.  I  listened  to  the  roar 
and  rattle  and  crash  and  bang,  and  at  the  end 
of  two  hours  my  head  was  whirlin'  as  fast  as 
some  of  them  big  belt  wheels;  and  I  knew  al 
most  as  much  about  what  I'd  seen  as  a  two- 
year-old  does  about  the  tick-tock  daddy  holds 
up  to  her  ear. 

Young  Mr.  Marvin  don't  seem  discouraged, 
though.  He  suggests  that  we  drive  into  town 
for  lunch.  We  did,  in  a  canary-colored  roadster 
that  purred  along  at  about  fifty  most  of  the 
way.  We  fed  at  a  swell  club,  along  with  a 
bunch  of  cheerful  young  lieutenants  of  indus 
try  who  didn't  seem  worried  about  the  high 
cost  of  anything.  I  gathered  that  most  of  'em 
was  in  the  same  line  as  Mr.  Marvin — supplies 
or  munitions.  From  the  general  talk,  and  the 
casual  way  they  ordered  pink  cocktails  and  ex 
pensive  cigars,  I  judged  it  wasn't  exactly  a 
losin'  game. 

Nor  they  didn't  seem  anxious  about  gettin' 
back  to  punch  in  on  the  time-clocks.  About 
two-thirty  we  adjourns  to  the  Country  Club, 
and  if  I'd  been  a  mashie  fiend  I  might  have 
finished  a  hard  day's  work  with  a  game  of  golf. 
I  thought  I  ought  to  do  some  more  shops, 


WHEN  TORCHY  GOT  THE  CALL    127 

though.  Why,  to  be  sure!  But  at  five  we 
knocked  off  again,  and  I  was  towed  to  another 
club,  where  we  had  a  plunge  in  a  marble  pool 
so  as  to  be  in  shape  for  a  little  dinner  Mr.  Mar 
vin  was  gettin'  up  for  me.  Quite  some  dinner! 
There  was  a  jolly  trip  out  to  an  amusement 
park  later  on.  Oh,  the  Wonder  folks  were  no 
tight-wads  when  it  came  to  showin'  special 
agents  of  the  Corrugated  around. 

I  tried  another  day  of  it  before  givin'  up. 
It  was  no  use.  They  had  me  buffaloed.  So  I 
thanked  all  hands  and  hinted  that  maybe  I'd 
better  be  goin'  back.  I  hope  I  didn't  deceive 
anyone,  for  I  did  go  back — to  the  hotel.  But 
by  night  I'd  invested  $11.45  in  a  second-hand 
outfit — warranted  steam-cleaned — and  I  had 
put  up  $6.  more  for  a  week's  board  with  a 
Swede  lady  whose  front  porch  faced  the  ten- 
foot  fence  guardin'  the  Wondor  Motors'  main 
plant.  Also,  Airs.  Petersen  had  said  it  was  a 
cinch  I  could  get  a  job.  Her  old  man  would 
show  me  where  in  the  mornin'. 

And  say,  mornin'  happens  early  out  in  places 
like  that.  By  5 : 30  A.M.  I  could  smell  bacon 
grease,  and  by  six-fifteen  breakfast  was  all  over 
and  Petersen  had  lit  his  corn-cob  pipe. 

"Coom!"  says  he  in  pure  Scandinavian. 

This  trip,  I  didn't  make  my  entrance  in  over 


128         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

the  Turkish  rugs  of  the  private  office.  I  was 
lined  up  with  a  couple  of  dozen  others  against 
a  fence  about  tenth  from  a  window  where  there 
was  a ' '  Men  Wanted ' '  sign  out.  Being  about  as 
much  of  a  mechanic  as  I  am  a  brunette,  I  made 
no  wild  bluffs.  I  just  said  I  wanted  a  job. 
And  I  got  it — riveter's  helper,  whatever  that 
might  be.  By  eight-thirty  my  name  and  num 
ber  was  on  the  pay-roll,  and  the  foreman  of 
shop  No.  19  was  introducin'  me  to  my  new 
boss. 

"Here,  Mike,"  says  he.  "Give  this  one  a 
try-out. ' ' 

His  name  wasn't  Mike.  It  was  something 
like  Sneezowski.  He  was  a  Pole  who'd  come 
over  three  years  ago  to  work  for  John  D.  at 
Bayonne,  New  Jersey,  but  had  got  into  some 
kind  of  trouble  there.  I  didn't  wonder.  He 
had  wicked  little  eyes,  one  lopped  ear,  and  a 
ragged  mustache  that  stood  out  like  tushes. 
But  he  sure  could  handle  a  pneumatic  riveter 
rapid,  and  when  it  came  to  reprovin'  me  for 
not  keepin'  the  pace  he  expressed  himself 
fluent. 

In  the  course  of  a  couple  of  hours,  though, 
I  got  the  hang  of  how  to  work  them  rivet 
tongs  without  droppin'  'em  more 'n  once  every 
five  minutes.  But  I  think  it  was  the  grin  I 


WHEN  TOBCHY  GOT  THE  CALL     129 

slipped  Mike  now  and  then  that  got  him  to 
overlookin'  my  awkward  motions.  Believe  me, 
too,  by  six  o'clock  I  felt  less  like  grinnin'  than 
any  time  I  could  remember.  I  never  knew  you 
could  ache  in  so  many  places  at  once.  From 
the  ankles  down  I  felt  fine.  And  yet,  before 
the  week  was  out  I  was  helpin'  Mike  speed  up. 

It  didn't  look  promisin'  for  sleuth  work  at 
first.  Half  a  dozen  times  I  was  on  the  point 
of  chuckin'  the  job.  But  the  thoughts  of  hav- 
in'  to  face  Old  Hickory  with  a  blank  report 
kept  me  pluggin'  away.  I  begun  to  get  my 
bearin's  a  bit  to  see  things,  to  put  this  and  that 
together. 

We  was  workin'  on  shaped  steel  plates, 
armor  for  the  tanks.  Now  and  then  one  would 
come  through  with  some  of  the  holes  only  quar 
ter  or  half  punched.  Course,  you  couldn't  put 
rivets  in  them  places. 

"How  about  these?"  I  asks. 

"Aw,  wottell!"  says  Mike.    "Forget  it." 

"But  what  if  the  inspector  sees?"  I  insists. 

Mike  gurgles  in  his  throat,  indicatin'  mirth. 

"Th'  inspec'!"  he  chuckles.  "Him  wink  by 
his  eye,  him.  Ya!  You  see!  Him  coom  Sat'- 
day." 

And  I  swaps  chuckles  with  Mike.  Also,  by 
settin'  up  the  schooners  at  Carlouva's  that  eve- 


130          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

nin',  I  got  Mike  to  let  out  more  professional 
secrets  along  the  same  line.  There  was  others 
who  joined  in.  They  bragged  of  chipped  gears 
that  was  shipped  through  with  the  bad  cogs 
covered  with  grease,  of  flawy  drivin'  shafts,  of 
cheesy  armor-plate  that  you  could  puncture 
with  a  tack-hammer. 

While  it  was  all  fresh  that  night  I  jotted 
down  pages  of  such  gossip  in  a  little  red  note 
book.  I  had  names  and  dates.  That  bunch  of 
piece-workers  must  have  thought  I  was  a  bear 
for  details,  or  else  nutty  in  the  head ;  but  they 
was  too  polite  to  mention  it  so  long  as  I  in 
sisted  each  time  that  it  was  my  buy. 

Anyway,  I  got  quite  a  lot  of  first-hand  evi 
dence  as  to  the  kind  of  inspectin'  done  by  the 
army  officer  assigned  to  this  particular  plant. 
I  had  to  smile,  too,  when  I  saw  Mr.  Marvin 
towin'  him  through  our  shop  Saturday  fore 
noon.  Maybe  they  was  three  minutes  breezin' 
through.  And  I  didn't  need  the  extra  smear 
of  smut  on  my  face.  Marvin  never  glanced 
my  way.  This  was  the  same  officer  who'd  been 
in  on  our  dinner  party,  too. 

Yes,  I  found  chattin'  with  Mike  and  his 
friends  a  lot  more  illuminatin'  than  listenin' 
to  Mr.  Marvin.  So,  when  I  drew  down  my  sec 
ond  pay  envelop,  I  told  the  clerk  I  was  quit- 


WHEN  TORCHY  GOT  THE  CALL     131 

tin'.  I  don't  mind  sayin',  either,  that  it  seemed 
good  to  splash  around  in  a  reg'lar  bath-tub 
once  more  and  to  look  a  sirloin  steak  in  the 
face  again.  A  stiff  collar  did  seem  odd,  though. 

Me  and  Mr.  Ellins  had  some  session.  We 
went  through  that  red  note-book  thorough.  He 
was  breathin'  a  bit  heavy  at  times,  and  he 
chewed  hard  on  his  cigar  all  the  way ;  but  he 
never  blew  a  fuse  until  fortyreight  hours  later. 
The  General  Manager  of  Wonder  Motors,  four 
department  heads,  and  the  army  officer  de 
tailed  as  inspector  was  part  of  the  audience. 
They'd  been  called  on  the  carpet  by  wire,  and 
was  grouped  around  one  end  of  our  directors' 
table.  At  the  other  end  was  Old  Hickory,  Mr, 
Robert,  Piddie,  and  me. 

Item  by  item,  Mr.  Ellins  had  sketched  out  to 
the  Wonder  crowd  the  bunk  stuff  they'd  been 
slippin'  over.  First  they  tried  protestin'  in 
dignant;  then  they  made  a  stab  at  actin'  hurt; 
but  in  the  end  they  just  looked  plain  foolish. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Ellins,"  put  in  the  General 
Manager,  "one  cannot  watch  every  workman  in 
a  plant  of  that  magnitude.  Besides,"  here  he 
hunches  his  shoulders,  "if  the  government  is 
satisfied " 

"Hah!"  snorts  Old  Hickory.  "But  it  isn't. 
For  I'm  the  government  in  this  instance.  I'm 


132         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

standing  for  Uncle  Sam.  That's  what  I  meant 
when  I  took  those  ten  per  cent,  contracts.  I'm 
too  old  to  go  out  and  fight  his  enemies  abroad, 
but  I  can  stay  behind  and  watch  for  yellow- 
livered  buzzards  such  as  you.  Call  that  busi 
ness,  do  you?  Fattening  your  dividends  by 
sending  our  boys  up  against  the  Prussian  guns 
in  junky  motor-tanks  covered  with  tin  armor! 
Bah!  Your  ethics  need  chloride  of  lime  on 
them.  And  you  come  here  whining  that  you 
can't  watch  your  men!  By  the  great  sizzling 
sisters,  we'll  see  if  you  can't!  You  will  put  in 
every  missing  rivet,  replace  every  flawy  plate, 
and  make  every  machine  perfect,  or  I'll  smash 
your  little  two-by-four  concern  so  flat  the  bank 
ruptcy  courts  won't  find  enough  to  tack  a  libel 
notice  on.  Now  go  back  and  get  busy. ' ' 

They  seemed  in  a  hurry  to  start,  too. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  when  Old  Hickory  had 
stopped  steaming,  he  passes  out  a  different  set 
of  remarks  to  me.  Oh,  the  usual  grateful  boss 
stuff.  Even  says  he 's  going  to  make  the  War 
Department  give  me  a  commission,  with  a  spe 
cial  detail. 

"Wouldn't  that  be  wonderful!"  says  Vee, 
clappin'  her  hands.  "Do  you  really  think  he 
will?  A  lieutenant,  perhaps?" 

"That's  what  he  mentioned,"  says  I. 


WHEN  TORCHY  GOT  THE  CALL     133 

"Really!"  says  Vee,  makin'  a  rush  at  me. 

"Wait  up!"  says  I.  "Halt,  I  mean.  Now, 
as  you  were!  Sal-ute!" 

"Pooh!"  says  Vee,  continuin'  her  rush. 

But  say,  she  knows  how  to  salute,  all  right. 
Her  way  would  break  up  an  army,  though. 
All  the  same,  I  guess  I've  earned  it,  for  by 
Monday  night  I'll  be  up  in  a  Syracuse  shovel 
works,  wearin'  a  one-piece  business  suit  of 
the  Never-rip  brand,  and  I'll  likely  have 
enough  grease  on  me  to  lubricate  a  switch- 
engine. 

"It's  lucky  you  don't  see  me,  Vee,"  says  I, 
"when  I'm  out  savin'  the  country.  You'd 
wonder  how  you  ever  come  to  do  it." 


CHAPTER  IX 

A   CARRY-ON    FOR   CLARA 

"Now  turn  around,"  says  Vee.  "Oh, 
Torchy!  Why,  you  look  perfectly " 

"Do  I?"  I  cuts  in.  "Well,  you  don't  think 
I'm  goin'  to  the  office  like  this,  do  you?" 

She  does.  Insists  that  Mr.  Ellins  will  ex 
pect  it. 

"Besides,"  says  she,  "it  is  in  the  army  regu 
lations  that  you  must.  If  you  don't — well, 
I'm  not  sure  whether  it  is  treason  or  mutiny." 

"Hal-lup!"  says  I.     "I  surrender." 

So  I  starts  for  town  lookm*  as  warlike  as  if 
I'd  just  come  from  a  front  trench,  and  feelin' 
like  a  masquerader  who'd  lost  his  way  to  the 
ball-room. 

In  the  office,  Old  Hickory  gives  me  the  thor 
ough  up-and-down.  It's  a  genial,  fatherly  sort 
of  inspection,  and  he  ends  it  with  a  satisfied 
grunt. 

"Good-morning,  Lieutenant,"  says  he.  "I 
see  you  have — er — got  'em  on.  And,  allow  me 
to  mention,  rather  a  good  fit,  sir." 

134 


A  CARRY-ON  FOR  CLARA         135 

I  gasps.  Sirred  by  Old  Hickory!  Do  you 
wonder  I  got  fussed?  But  he  only  chuckles 
easy,  waves  me  to  take  a  chair,  and  goes  on 
with: 

"What's  the  word  from  the  Syracuse  sec 
tor?" 

At  that,  I  gets  my  breath  back. 

"Fairly  good  deal  up  there,  sir,"  says  I. 
"They're  workin'  in  a  carload  or  so  of  wormy 
ash  for  the  shovel  handles,  and  some  of  the 
steel  runs  below  test;  but  most  of  their  stuff 
grades  well.  I'll  have  my  notes  typed  off  right 
away. ' ' 

After  I've  filed  my  report  I  should  have 
ducked.  But  this  habit  of  stickin'  around  the 
shop  is  hard  to  break.  And  that's  how  I  hap 
pen  to  be  on  hand  when  the  lady  in  gray  drifts 
in  for  her  chatty  confab  with  Mr.  Ellins. 

Seems  she  held  quite  a  block  of  our  pre 
ferred,  for  when  Vincent  lugs  in  her  card  Old 
Hickory  spots  the  name  right  away  as  being  on 
our  widow-and-orphan  list  that  we  wave  at  in- 
vestigatin'  committees. 

"Ah,  yes!"  says  he.  "Mrs.  Parker  Smith. 
Show  her  in,  boy." 

Such  a  quiet,  gentle,  dignified  party  she  is, 
her  costume  tonin'  in  with  her  gray  hair,  and 
an  easy  way  of  speakin'  and  all,  that  my  first 


136         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

guess  is  she  might  be  the  head  of  an  old  ladies* 
home. 

"Mr.  Ellins,"  says  she,  "I  am  looking  for 
my  niece." 

"Are  you?"  says  Mr.  Ellins,  "Humph! 
Hardly  think  we  could  be  of  service  in  such 
a  case." 

"Oh!"  says  she.    "I — I  am  so  sorry." 

"Lost,  is  she?"  suggests  Mr.  Ellins,  weak- 
enin'. 

"She  is  somewhere  in  New  York,"  goes  on 
Mrs.  Parker  Smith.  "Of  course,  I  know  it  is 
an  imposition  to  trouble  you  with  such  a  mat 
ter.  But  I  thought  you  might  have  someone 
in  your  office  who — who " 

"We  have,"  says  he.  "Torchy, — er — I 
mean,  Lieutenant, — Mrs.  Parker  Smith.  Here, 
madam,  is  a  young  man  who  will  find  your 
niece  for  you  at  once.  In  private  life  he  is 
my  secretary;  and  as  it  happens  that  just  now 
he  is  on  special  detail,  his  services  are  entirely 
at  your  disposal." 

She  looks  a  little  doubtful  about  bein* 
shunted  like  that,  but  she  follows  me  into  the 
next  room,  where  I  produces  a  pencil  and  pad 
and  calls  for  details  businesslike. 

"Let's  see,"  says  I.  "What's  the  full  de 
scription?  Age?" 


A  CARRY-ON  FOR  CLARA         137 

"Why,"  says  she,  hesitating  " Claire  is 
about  twenty- two." 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "Got  beyond  the  flapper 
stage,  then.  Height — tall  or  short?" 

Mrs.  Parker  Smith  shakes  her  head. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  says  she.  "You 
see,  Claire  is  not  an  own  niece.  She — well,  she 
•is  a  daughter  of  my  first  husband's  second 
wife's  step-sister." 

"Wha-a-at?"  says  I,  gawpin'  at  her. 

"Daughter  of  your Oh,  say,  let's  not  go 

into  it  as  deep  as  that.  I'm  dizzy  already. 
Suppose  we  call  her  an  in-law  once  removed 
and  let  it  go  at  that!" 

"Thank  you,"  says  Mrs.  Parker  Smith,  giv- 
in'  me  a  quizzin'  smile.  "Perhaps  it  is  enough 
to  say  that  I  have  never  seen  her. ' ' 

She  does  go  on  to  explain,  though,  that  when 
Claire's  step-uncle,  or  whatever  he  was,  found 
his  heart  trouble  gettin'  worse,  he  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Parker  Smith,  askin'  her  to  forget  the 
past  and  look  after  the  orphan  girl  that  he's 
been  tryin'  to  bring  up.  It's  just  as  clear  to 
me  as  the  average  movie  plot,  but  I  nods  my 
head. 

"So  for  three  years,"  says  she,  "while 
Claire  was  in  boarding-school,  I  acted  as  her 
guardian ;  but  since  she  has  come  of  age  I  have 


138         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

been  merely  the  executor  of  her  small 
estate." 

"Oh,  yes!"  says  I.  "And  now  she's  come  to 
New  York,  and  forgot  to  send  you  her  ad 
dress?" 

It  was  something  like  that.  Claire  had  gone 
in  for  art.  Looked  like  she'd  splurged  heavy 
on  it,  too;  for  the  drain  on  her  income  had 
been  something  fierce.  Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Parker 
Smith  had  doped  out  an  entirely  different  fu 
ture  for  Claire.  The  funds  that  had  been  tied 
up  in  a  Vermont  barrel-stave  fact'ry,  that  was 
makin'  less  and  less  barrel  staves  every  year, 
Auntie  had  pulled  out  and  invested  in  a  model 
dairy  farm  out  near  Rockford,  Illinois.  She'd 
made  the  capital  turn  over  from  fifteen  to 
twenty  per  cent.,  too,  by  livin'  right  on 
the  job  and  cashin'  in  the  cream  tickets 
herself. 

"You  have!"  says  I.  "Not  a  reg'lar  cow 
farm?" 

She  nods. 

"It  did  seem  rather  odd,  at  first,"  says  she. 
"But  I  wanted  to  get  away  from — from  every 
thing.  But  now—  Well,  I  want  Claire.  I 
suppose  I  am  a  little  lonesome.  Besides,  I 
want  her  to  try  taking  charge.  Recently,  when 
she  had  drawn  her  income  for  half  a  year  in 


A  CARRY-ON  FOB  CLARA         139 

advance  and  still  asked  for  more,  I  was  obliged 
to  refuse." 

"And  then?"  says  I. 

Mrs.  Parker  Smith  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"The  foolish  girl  chose  to  quarrel  with  me," 
says  she.  "About  ten  days  ago  she  sent  me  a 
curt  note.  I  could  keep  her  money;  she  was 
tired  of  being  dictated  to.  I  needn't  write  any 
more,  for  she  had  moved  to  another  address, 
had  changed  her  name." 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "That  does  make  it  compli 
cated.  You  don't  know  what  she  looks  like,  or 
what  name  she  flags  under,  and  I'm  to  find  her 
in  little  New  York?" 

But  I  finds  myself  tacklin  this  hopeless  puz 
zle  from  every  angle  I  could  think  of.  I  tried 
'phonin'  to  Claire's  old  street  number.  Noth- 
in'  doin'.  They  didn't  know  anything  about 
Miss  Hunt. 

"What  brand  of  art  was  she  monkeyin' 
with?"  I  asks. 

Mrs.  Parker  Smith  couldn't  say.  Claire 
hadn't  been  very  chatty  in  her  letters.  Chiefly 
she  had  demanded  checks. 

"But  in  one  she  did  mention,"  says  the  lady 

in  gray, ' '  that Now,  what  was  it !  Oh,  yes ! 

Something  about  'landing  a  cover.'  What 
could  that  mean?" 


140         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Cover?"  says  I.  "Why,  for  a  magazine, 
maybe.  That's  it.  And  if  we  only  knew  what 

name  she'd  sign,  we  might Would  she 

stick  to  the  Claire  part?  I'll  bet  she  would. 
Wait.  I'll  get  a  bunch  of  back  numbers  from 
the  arcade  news-stand  and  we'll  go  through 
'em." 

We'd  hunted  through  an  armful,  though,  be 
fore  we  runs  across  this  freaky  sketch  of  a 
purple  nymph,  with  bright  yellow  hair,  bounc- 
in'  across  a  stretch  of  dark  blue  lawn. 

"Claire  Lamar!"  says  I.  "Would  that 
be-  Eh  ?  What 's  wrong  ? ' ' 

Mrs.  Parker  Smith  seems  to  be  gettin'  a 
jolt  of  some  kind,  but  she  steadies  herself  and 
almost  gets  back  her  smile. 

"I — I  am  sure  it  would,"  says  she.  "It's 
very  odd,  though." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  I.  "Listens  kind 
of  arty — Claire  Lamar.  Lemme  see.  This 
snappy  fifteen-center  has  editorial  offices  on 

Fourth  Avenue  and Well,  well!  Barry 

Frost,  ad.  manager!  Say,  if  I  can  get  him 
on  the  wire 

Just  by  luck,  I  did.  Would  he  pry  some 
facts  for  me  out  of  the  art  editor,  facts  about 
a  certain  party?  Sure  he  would.  And  inside 
of  ten  minutes,  without  leavin'  the  Corrugated 


A  CARRY-ON  FOR  CLARA         141 

General  Offices,  I  had  a  full  description  of 
Claire,  includin'  where  she  hung  out. 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "Greenwich  Village,  eh? 
You  might  know." 

"My  dear  Lieutenant,"  says  Mrs.  Parker 
Smith,  "I  think  you  are  perfectly  wonder 
ful." 

"Swell  thought!"  says  I.  "But  you  needn't 
let  on  to  Mr.  Ellins  how  simple  it  was.  And 
now,  all  you  got  to  do  is " 

"I  know,"  she  cuts  in.  "And  I  really 
ought  not  to  trouble  you  another  moment. 
But,  since  Mr.  Ellins  has  been  so  kind — well, 
I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  help  me  just  a  trifle 
more." 

"Shoot,"  says  I,  unsuspicious. 

It  ain't  much,  she  says.  But  she's  afraid, 
if  she  trails  Claire  to  her  rooms,  the  young 
lady  might  send  down  word  she  was  out,  or 
make  a  quick  exit. 

"But  if  you  would  go,"  she  suggests,  "with 
a  note  from  me  asking  her  to  join  us  some 
where  at  dinner " 

I  holds  up  both  hands. 

"Sorry,"  says  I,  "but  I  got  to  duck.  That's 
taking  too  many  chances." 

Then  I  explains  how,  although  I  may  look 
like  a  singleton,  I'm  really  the  other  half  of  a 


142         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

very  interestin'  domestic  sketch,  and  that  Vee's 
expectin'  me  home  to  dinner. 

"Why,  all  the  better!"  says  Mrs.  Parker 
Smith.  "Have  her  come  in  and  join  us.  I'll 
tell  you:  we  will  have  our  little  party  down 
at  the  old  Napoleon,  where  they  have  such 
delicious  French  cooking.  Now,  please." 

As  I've  hinted  before,  she  is  some  persuader. 
I  ain't  mesmerized  so  strong,  though,  but  what 
I  got  sense  enough  to  play  it  safe  by  callin' 
up  Vee  first.  I  don't  think  she  was  strong  for 
joinin'  the  reunion  until  I  points  out  that  I 
might  be  some  shy  at  wanderin'  down  into 
the  art-student  colony  and  collectin'  a  strange 
young  lady  illustrator  all  by  myself. 

"Course,  I  could  do  it  alone  if  I  had  to,"  I 
throws  in. 

"H-m-m-m!"  says  Vee.  "If  that  bashful- 
ness  of  yours  is  likely  to  be  as  bad  as  all  that, 
perhaps  I'd  better  come." 

So  by  six  o  'clock  Vee  and  I  are  in  the  dinky 
reception-room  of  one  of  them  Belasco  board- 
in '-houses,  tryin'  to  convince  a  young  female 
in  a  paint-splashed  smock  and  a  floppy  boudoir 
cap  that  we  ain't  tryin'  to  kidnap  or  otherwise 
annoy  her. 

"What's  the  big  idea?"  says  she.  "I  don't 
get  you  at  all." 


A  CARRY-ON  FOR  CLARA         143 

" Maybe  if  you'd  read  the  note  it  would 
help,"  I  suggests. 

"Oh!  "  says  she,  and  takes  it  over  by  the 
window. 

She's  a  long-waisted,  rangy  young  party, 
who  walks  with  a  Theda  Bara  slouch  and  tries 
to  talk  out  of  one  side  of  her  mouth.  ' '  Hello ! ' ' 
she  goes  on.  "The  Parker  Smith  person. 
That's  enough.  It's  all  off." 

"Just  as  you  say,"  says  I.  "But,  if  you 
ask  me,  I  wouldn't  pass  up  an  aunt  like  her 
without  takin'  a  look." 

"Aunt!"  says  Claire  Lamar,  alias  Hunt. 
"Listen:  she's  about  as  much  an  aunt  to  me  as 
I  am  to  either  of  you.  And  I've  never  shed 
any  tears  over  the  fact,  either.  The  only 
aunt  that  I'd  ever  own  was  one  that  my  family 
would  never  tell  me  much  about.  I  had  to 
find  out  about  her  for  myself.  Take  it  from 
me,  though,  she  was  some  aunt." 

"Tastes  in  aunts  differ,  I  expect,"  says  I. 
"And  Mrs.  Parker  Smith  don't  claim  to  be  a 
reg'lar  aunt,  anyway.  She  seems  harmless, 
too.  All  she  wants  is  a  chance  to  give  you 
a  rosy  prospectus  of  life  on  a  cow  farm  and 
blow  you  to  a  dinner  at  the  Napoleon." 

"Think  of  that!"  says  Claire.  "And  I've 
been  living  for  weeks  on  window-sill  meals, 


144         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

with  now  and  then  a  ptomaine-defying  gorge 
at  the  Pink  Poodle's  sixty-cent  table  d'hote. 
Oh,  I'll  come,  I'll  come!  But  I  warn  you: 
the  Parker  Smith  person  will  understand  be 
fore  the  evening  is  over  that  I  was  born  to  no 
cow  farm  in  Illinois." 

With  that  she  glides  off  to  do  a  dinner 
change. 

"I  believe  it  is  going  to  be  quite  an  interest 
ing  party,  don't  you?"  says  Vee. 

"The  signs  point  that  way,"  says  I.  "But 
the  old  girl  really  ought  to  wear  shock- 
absorbers  if  she  wants  to  last  through  the  eve- 
nin'.  S-s-s-sh!  Claire  is  comin'  back." 

This  time  she's  draped  herself  in  a  pale 
yellow  kimono  with  blue  triangles  stenciled  all 
over  it. 

"Speaking  of  perfectly  good  aunts,"  says 
she,  "there!"  And  she  displays  a  silver- 
framed  photo.  It's  an  old-timer  done  in  faded 
brown,  and  shows  a  dashin'  young  party  wear- 
in'  funny  sleeves,  a  ringlet  cascade  on  one  side 
of  her  head,  and  a  saucy  little  pancake  lid  over 
one  ear. 

"That,"  explains  Claire,  "was  my  aunt 
Clara  Lamar;  not  my  real  aunt,  you  know,  but 
near  enough  for  me  to  claim  her.  This  was 
taken  in  '82,  I  believe." 


A  CARRY-ON  FOR  CLARA         145 

"Really!"  says  Vee.  "She  must  have  been 
quite  pretty." 

"That  doesn't  half  tell  it,"  says  Claire. 
"She  was  a  charmer,  simply  fascinating.  Not 
beautiful,  you  know,  but  she  had  a  way  with 
her.  She  was  brilliant,  daring,  one  of  the  kind 
that  men  raved  over.  At  twenty  she  married 
a  Congressman,  fat  and  forty.  She  hadn't 
lived  in  Washington  six  months  before  her  re 
ceptions  were  crushes.  She  flirted  industri 
ously.  A  young  French  aide  and  an  army 
officer  fought  a  duel  over  her.  And,  while  the 
capital  was  buzzing  with  that,  she  eloped  with 
another  diplomat,  a  Russian.  For  a  year  or 
two  they  lived  in  Paris.  She  had  her  salon. 
Then  the  Russian  got  himself  killed  in  some 
way,  and  she  soon  married  again — another 
American,  quite  wealthy.  He  brought  her 
back  to  New  York,  and  they  lived  in  one  of 
those  old  brown-stone  mansions  on  lower  Fifth 
Avenue.  Her  dinner  parties  were  the  talk  of 
the  town — champagne  with  the  fish,  vodka  with 
the  coffee,  cigarettes  for  the  women,  cut-up 
stunts  afterwards.  I  forget  just  who  No.  3 
was,  but  he  succumbed.  Couldn't  stand  the 

pace,  I  suppose.  And  then Well,  Aunt 

Clara  disappeared.  But,  say,  she  was  a  regu- 


146         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

lar  person.  I  wish  I  conld  find  out  what  ever 
became  of  her." 

"  Maybe  Mrs.  Parker  Smith  could  give  you 
a  line,"  I  suggests. 

"Her!"  says  Claire.  "Fat  chance!  But  I 
must  finish  dressing.  Sorry  to  keep  you  wait 
ing." 

We  did  get  a  bit  restless  durin'  the  next 
half  hour,  but  the  wait  was  worth  while.  For, 
believe  me,  when  Claire  comes  down  again 
she's  some  dolled. 

I  don't  mean  she  was  any  home-destroyer. 
That  face  of  hers  is  too  long  and  heavy  for 
the  front  row  of  a  song  review.  But  she  has 
plenty  of  zip  to  her  get-up.  After  one  glance 
I  calls  a  taxi. 

The  way  I'd  left  it  with  Mrs.  Parker  Smith, 
we  was  to  land  Claire  at  the  hotel  first;  then 
call  her  up,  and  proceed  to  order  dinner.  So 
we  had  another  little  stage  wait,  with  only  the 
three  of  us  at  the  table. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  if  I  have  a  puff  or 
two,"  says  Claire.  "It  goes  here,  you  know." 

"Anything  to  make  the  evenin'  a  success," 
says  I,  signalin'  a  gargon.  "My  khaki  lets  me 
out  of  followin'  you." 

So,  when  the  head  waiter  finally  tows  in 
Mrs.  Parker  Smith,  costumed  in  the  same  gray 


A  CAERY-ON  FOR  CLARA         147 

dress  and  lookin'  meeker  and  gentler  than  ever, 
she  is  greeted  with  a  sporty  tableau.  But  she 
don 't  faint  or  anything.  She  just  springs  that 
twisty  smile  of  hers  and  comes  right  on. 

"The  missing  one!"  says  I,  wavin'  at  Claire. 

"Ah!"  says  Mrs.  Parker  Smith,  beamin'  on 
her.  "So  good  of  you  to  come!" 

"Wasn't  it?"  says  Claire,  removin'  the  cork 
tip  languid. 

Well,  as  a  get-together  I  must  admit  that 
the  outlook  was  kind  of  frosty.  Claire  showed 
plenty  of  enthusiasm  for  the  hors  d'ceuvres  and 
the  low-tide  soup  and  so  on,  but  mighty  little 
for  this  volunteer  auntie,  who  starts  to  de 
scribe  the  subtle  joys  of  the  butter  business. 

"Perhaps  you  have  never  seen  a  herd  of 
registered  Guernseys,"  says  Mrs.  Parker 
Smith,  "when  they  are  munching  contentedly 
at  milking  time,  with  their  big,  dreamy 
eyes " 

"Excuse  me!"  says  Claire.  "I  don't  have 
to.  I  spent  a  whole  month's  vacation  on  a 
Vermont  farm." 

Mrs.  Parker  Smith  only  smiles  indulgent. 

"We  use  electric  milkers,  you  know,"  says 
she,  "and  most  of  our  young  men  come  from 
the  agricultural  colleges." 

"That  listens  alluring — some,"  admits  Claire, 


148         THE  HOUSE  OP  TORCHY 

"But  I  can't  see  myself  planted  ten  miles  out 
on  an  B.  F.  D.  route,  even  with  college-bred 
help.  Pardon  me  if  I  light  another  dope- 
stick." 

I  could  get  her  idea  easy  enough,  by  then. 
Claire  wasn't  half  so  sporty  as  she  hoped  she 
was.  It  was  just  her  way  of  doing  the  carry- 
on  for  Aunt  Clara  Lamar.  But,  at  the  same 
time,  we  couldn't  help  feelin'  kind  of  sorry 
for  Mrs.  Parker  Smith.  She  was  tryin'  to  be 
so  nice  and  friendly,  and  she  wasn't  gettin' 
anywhere. 

It  was  by  way  of  switchin'  the  line  of  table 
chat,  I  expect,  that  Vee  breaks  in  with  that 
remark  about  the  only  piece  of  jewelry  the 
old  girl  is  wearin'. 

"What  a  duck  of  a  bracelet!"  says  Vee. 
"An  heirloom,  is  it?" 

"Almost,"  says  Mrs.  Parker  Smith.  "It 
was  given  to  me  on  my  twenty-second  birth 
day,  in  Florence." 

She  slips  it  off  and  passes  it  over  for  inspec 
tion.  The  part  that  goes  around  the  wrist  is 
all  of  fine  chain-work,  silver  and  gold,  woven 
almost  like  cloth,  and  on  top  is  a  cameo,  'most 
as  big  as  a  clam. 

"How  stunning!  Look,  Torchy.  0-o-oh!" 
says  Vee,  gaspin'  a  little. 


A  CARRY-ON  FOR  CLARA         149 

In  handling  the  thing  she  must  have  pressed 
a  catch  somewhere,  for  the  cameo  springs 
back,  revealin'  a  locket  effect  underneath  with 
a  picture  in  it.  Course,  we  couldn't  help 
seein'. 

"Why — why "  says  Vee,  gazin'  from  the 

picture  to  Mrs.  Parker  Smith.  "Isn't  this  a 
portrait  of — of " 

"Of  a  very  silly  young  woman,"  cuts  in 
Auntie.  "We  waited  in  Florence  a  week  to 
have  that  finished." 

"Then — then  it  is  you?"  asks  Vee. 

The  lady  in  gray  nods.  Vee  asks  if  she 
may  show  it  to  Claire. 

"Why  not!"  says  Mrs.  Parker  Smith, 
smilin'. 

We  didn't  stop  to  explain.  I  passes  it  on 
to  Claire,  and  then  we  both  watches  her  face. 
For  the  dinky  little  picture  under  the  cameo 
is  a  dead  ringer  for  the  one  Claire  had  shown 
us  in  the  silver  frame.  So  it  was  Claire's  turn 
to  catch  a  short  breath. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  says  she,  "that — that  you 
are  Clara  Lamar?" 

Which  was  when  Auntie  got  her  big  jolt. 
For  a  second  the  pink  fades  out  of  her  cheeks, 
and  the  salad  fork  she'd  been  holdin'  rattles 


150         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

into  her  plate.     She  makes  a  quick  recovery, 
though. 

"I  was — once,"  says  she.  "I  had  hoped, 
though,  that  the  name  had  been  forgotten. 
Tell  me,  how — how  do  you  happen  to " 


1 1' 


'Why,"  says  Claire,  " uncle  had  the  scrap- 
book  habit.  Anyway,  I  found  this  one  in  an 
old  desk,  and  it  was  all  about  you.  Your  pic 
ture  was  in  it,  too.  And  say,  Auntie,  you 
were  the  real  thing,  weren't  you!" 

After  that  it  was  a  reg'lar  reunion.  For 
Claire  had  dug  up  her  heroine.  And,  no  mat 
ter  how  strong  Auntie  protests  that  she  ain't 
that  sort  of  a  party  now,  and  hasn't  been  for 
years  and  years,  Claire  keeps  right  on.  She's 
a  consistent  admirer,  even  if  she  is  a  little 
late. 

"If  I  had  only  known  it  was  you!"  says  she. 

"Then — then  you'll  come  to  Meadowbrae 
with  me?"  asks  Mrs.  Parker  Smith. 

"You  bet!"  says  Claire.  "Between  you  and 
me,  this  art  career  of  mine  has  rather  fizzled 
out.  Besides,  keeping  it  up  has  got  to  be 
rather  a  bore.  Honest,  a  spaghetti  and  ciga 
rette  life  is  a  lot  more  romantic  to  read  about 
than  it  is  to  follow.  Whether  I  could  learn  to 
run  a  dairy  farm  or  not,  I  don't  know;  but, 
with  an  aunt  like  you  to  coach  me  along,  I'm 


A  CARRY-ON  FOR  CLARA         151 

blessed  if  I  don't  give  it  a  try.  When  do  we 
start?" 

"But,"  says  Vee  to  me,  later,  "I  can't 
imagine  her  on  a  farm." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  I.  "Didn't  you 
notice  she  couldn't  smoke  without  gettin'  it  up 
her  nose?" 


CHAPTER  X 

ALL   THE   WAY   WITH   ANNA 

BELIEVE  me,  Belinda,  this  havin'  a  boss  who's 
apt  to  stack  you  up  casual  against  stuff  that 
would  worry  a  secret  service  corps  recruited 
from  seventh  sons  is  a  grand  little  cure  for 
monotonous  moments.  Just  because  I  happen 
to  get  a  few  easy  breaks  on  my  first  special 
details  seems  to  give  Old  Hickory  the  merry 
idea  that  when  he  wants  someone  to  do  the 
wizard  act,  all  he  has  to  do  is  press  the  button 
for  me.  I  don't  know  whether  my  wearin'  the 
khaki  uniform  helps  out  the  notion  or  not.  I 
shouldn't  wonder. 

Now,  here  a  week  or  ten  days  ago,  when  I 
leaves  Vee  and  my  peaceful  little  home  after  a 
week-end  swing,  I  expects  to  be  shot  up  to 
Amesbury,  Mass.,  to  inspect  a  gun-limber  fac 
tory.  Am  I?  Not  at  all.  By  3  P.M.  I'm  in 
Bridgeport,  Conn.,  wanderin'  about  sort  of 
aimless,  and  tryin'  to  size  up  a  proposition 
that  I'm  about  as  well  qualified  to  handle  as 

152 


ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA      153 

a  plumber's  helper  called  in  to  tune  a  pipe 
organ. 

Why  was  it  that  some  three  thousand  hands 
in  one  of  our  sub-contractin'  plants  was  bent 
on  gettin'  stirred  up  and  messy  about  every 
so  often,  in  spite  of  all  that  had  been  done  to 
soothe  'em  I 

Does  that  listen  simple,  or  excitin',  or  even 
interestin"?  It  didn't  to  me.  Specially  after 
I'd  given  the  once-over  to  this  giddy  mob  of 
Wops  and  Hunkies  and  Sneezowskis. 

The  office  people  didn't  know  how  many 
brands  of  Czechs  or  Magyars  or  Polacks  they 
had  in  the  shops.  What  they  was  real  sure  of 
was  that  a  third  of  the  bunch  had  walked  out 
twice  within  the  last  month,  and  if  they  quit 
again,  as  there  was  signs  of  their  doin',  we 
stood  to  drop  about  $200,000  in  bonuses  on 
shell  contracts. 

It  wasn't  a  matter  of  wage  scales,  either. 
Honest,  some  of  them  ginks  with  three  z's  in 
their  names  was  runnin'  up,  with  over-time 
and  all,  pay  envelops  that  averaged  as  much 
as  twelve  a  day.  Why,  some  of  the  women  and 
girls  were  pullin'  down  twenty-five  a  week. 
And  they  couldn't  kick  on  the  workin'  condi 
tions,  either.  Here  was  a  brand-new  concrete 
plant,  clean  as  a  new  dish-pan,  with  half  the 


154          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

sides  swingin'  glass  sashes,  and  flower  beds 
outside. 

"And  still  they  threaten  another  strike," 
says  the  general  manager.  "If  it  comes,  we 
might  as  well  scrap  this  whole  plant  and  trans 
fer  the  equipment  to  Pennsylvania  or  some 
where  else.  Unless"— here  he  grins  sarcastic 
— "you  can  find  out  what  ails  'em,  Lieutenant. 
But  you  are  only  the  third  bright  young  man 
the  Corrugated  has  sent  out  to  tell  us  what's 
what,  you  know." 

"Oh,  well,"  says  I.  "There's  luck  in  odd 
numbers.  Cheer  up." 

It  was  after  this  little  chat  that  I  sheds  the 
army  costume  and  wanders  out  disguised  as  a 
horny-handed  workingman. 

Not  that  I'd  decided  to  get  a  job  right  away. 
After  my  last  stab  I  ain't  so  strong  for  this 
ten-hour  cold-lunch  trick  as  I  was  when  I  was 
new  to  the  patriotic  sleuthin'  act.  Besides, 
bein'  no  linguist,  I  couldn't  see  how  workin' 
with  such  a  mixed  lot  was  goin'  to  get  me  any 
where.  If  I  could  only  run  across  a  good  am 
bidextrous  interpreter,  now,  one  who  could 
listen  in  ten  languages  and  talk  in  six,  it 
might  help.  And  who  was  it  I  once  knew  that 
had  moved  to  Bridgeport? 

I'd  been  mullin'  on  that  mystery  ever  since 


ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA      155 

I  struck  the  town.  Just  a  glimmer,  some 
where  in  the  back  of  my  nut,  that  there  had 
been  such  a  party  some  time  or  other.  I'll 
admit  that  wasn't  much  of  a  clue  to  start  out 
trailin'  in  a  place  of  this  size,  but  it's  all  I 
had. 

I  must  have  walked  miles,  readin'  the  signs 
on  the  stores,  pushin'  my  way  through  the 
crowds,  and  finally  droppin'  into  a  fairly 
clean-lookin'  restaurant  for  dinner.  Half  way 
through  the  goulash  and  noodles,  I  had  this 
bright  thought  about  consultin'  the  'phone 
book.  The  cashier  that  let  me  have  it  eyed 
me  suspicious  as  I  props  it  up  against  the 
sugar  bowl  and  starts  in  with  the  A's. 

Ever  try  readin'  a  telephone  directory 
straight  through!  By  the  time  I'd  got  through 
the  M's  I'd  had  to  order  another  cup  of  coffee 
and  a  second  piece  of  lemon  pie.  At  that, 
the  waitress  was  gettin'  uneasy.  She'd  just 
shoved  my  check  at  me  for  the  third  time, 
and  was  addin'  a  glass  of  wooden  tooth-picks, 
when  I  lets  out  this  excited  stage  whisper. 

"Sobowski!"  says  I,  grabbin'  the  book. 

The  young  lady  in  the  frilled  apron  rests 
her  thumbs  on  her  hips  dignified  and  shoots 
me  a  haughty  glance.  ' '  Ring  off,  young  feller, ' ' 
says  she.  "You  got  the  wrong  number." 


156         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Not  so,  Clarice,"  says  I.  "His  first  name 
is  Anton,  and  he  used  to  run  a  shine  parlor 
in  the  arcade  of  the  Corrugated  buildin',  New 
York,  N.  Y." 

"It's  a  small  world,  ain't  it?"  says  she. 
"You  can  pay  me  or  at  the  desk,  just  as  you 
like." 

Clarice  got  her  tip  all  right,  and  loaned  me 
her  pencil  to  write  down  Anton's  street  num 
ber. 

A  stocky,  bow-legged  son  of  Kosciuszko, 
built  close  to  the  ground,  and  with  a  neck  on 
him  like  a  truck-horse,  as  I  remembered  Anton. 
But  the  hottest  kind  of  a  sport.  Used  to  run  a 
pool  on  the  ball-games,  and  made  a  book  on 
the  ponies  now  and  then.  Always  had  a  roll 
with  him.  He'd  take  a  nickel  tip  from  me  and 
then  bet  a  guy  in  the  next  chair  fifty  to  thirty- 
five  the  Giants  would  score  more'n  three  runs 
against  the  Cubs'  new  pitcher  in  to-morrow's 
game.  That  kind. 

Must  have  been  two  or  three  years  back  that 
Anton  had  told  me  about  some  openin'  he  had 
to  go  in  with  a  brother-in-law  up  in  Bridge 
port.  Likely  I  didn't  pay  much  attention  at 
the  time.  Anyway,  he  was  missin'  soon  after; 
and  if  I  hadn't  been  in  the  habit  of  callin'  him 
Old  Sobstuff  I'd  have  forgotten  that  name  of 


ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA       157 

his  entirely.  But  seem'  it  there  in  the  book 
brought  back  the  whole  thing. 

" Anton  Sobowski,  saloon,"  was  the  way  it 
was  listed.  So  he  was  runnin'  a  suds  parlor, 
eh?  Well,  it  wasn't  likely  he'd  know  much 
about  labor  troubles,  but  it  wouldn't  do  any 
harm  to  look  him  up.  When  I  came  to  trail 
down  the  street  number,  though,  blamed  if  it 
ain't  within  half  a  block  of  our  branch  works. 

And,  sure  enough,  in  a  little  office  beyond 
the  bar,  leanin'  back  luxurious  in  a  swivel- 
chair,  and  displayin'  a  pair  of  baby-blue  arm 
lets  over  his  shirt  sleeves,  I  discovers  Mr.  Sob 
owski  himself.  It  ain't  any  brewery-staked 
hole-in-the-wall  he's  boss  of,  either.  It's  the 
Warsaw  Cafe,  bar  and  restaurant,  all  glit 
tery  and  gorgeous,  with  lace  curtains  in  the 
front  windows,  red,  white,  and  blue  mosquito 
nettin'  draped  artistic  over  the  frosted  mir 
rors,  and  three  busy  mixers  behind  the  ma 
hogany  bar. 

Anton  has  fleshed  up  considerable  since  he 
quit  jugglin'  the  brushes,  and  he's  lost  a  little 
of  the  good-natured  twinkle  from  his  wide-set 
eyes.  He  glances  up  at  me  sort  of  surly  when 
I  first  steps  into  the  office;  but  the  minute  I 
takes  off  the  straw  lid  and  ducks  my  head  at 
him,  he  lets  loose  a  rumbly  chuckle. 


158          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"It  is  that  Torchy,  hey?"  says  he.  "Well, 
well!  It  don't  fade  any,  does  it?" 

"Not  that  kind  of  dye,"  says  I.  "How's 
the  boy?" 

"Me,"  says  Anton.  "Oh,  fine  like  silk. 
How  you  like  the  place,  hey?" 

I  enthused  over  the  Warsaw  Cafe ;  and  when 
he  found  I  was  still  with  the  Corrugated,  and 
didn't  want  to  touch  him  for  any  coin,  but 
had  just  happened  to  be  in  town  and  thought 
I'd  look  him  up  for  old  times'  sake — well,  An 
ton  opened  up  considerable. 

"What!"  says  he.  "They  send  you  out? 
You  must  be  comin'  up?" 

"Only  private  sec.  to  Mr.  Ellins,"  says  I, 
"but  he  chases  me  around  a  good  deal.  We're 
busy  people  these  days,  you  know." 

"The  Corrugated  Trust!  I  should  say  so" 
agrees  Anton,  waggin'  his  head  earnest.  "Big 
people,  big  money.  I  like  to  have  my  brother- 
in-law  meet  you.  Wait." 

Seemed  a  good  deal  like  wastin'  time,  but 
I  spent  the  whole  evenin'  with  Anton.  I  met 
not  only  the  brother-in-law,  but  also  Mrs.  Sob- 
owski,  his  wife;  and  another  Mrs.  Sobowski, 
an  aunt  or  something ;  and  Miss  Anna  Sobowski, 
his  niece.  Also  I  saw  the  three-story  Sobowski 
boardin '-house  that  Anton  conducted  on  the 


ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA      159 

side ;  and  the  Alcazar  movie  joint,  another  Sob- 
owski  enterprise. 

That's  where  this  Anna  party  was  sellin' 
tickets — a  peachy-cheeked,  high-chested  young 
lady  with  big,  rollin'  eyes,  and  her  mud-colored 
hair  waved  something  wonderful.  I  was  intro 
duced  reg'lar  and  impressive. 

"Anna,"  says  Anton,  "take  a  good  look 
at  this  young  man.  He's  a  friend  of  mine. 
Any  time  he  comes  by,  pass  him  in  free — any 
time  at  all.  See?" 

And  Anna,  she  flashes  them  high-powered 
eyes  of  hers  at  me  kittenish.  "Aw  ri',"  says 
she.  "I'm  on,  Mr.  Torchy." 

"That  girl,"  confides  Anton  to  me  after 
wards,  "was  eating  black  bread  and  cabbage 
soup  in  Poland  less  than  three  years  ago. 
Now  she  buys  high  kid  boots,  two  kinds  of 
leather,  at  fourteen  dollars.  And  makes  goo- 
goo  eyes  at  all  the  men.  Yes,  but  never  no  mis 
takes  with  the  change.  Not  Anna." 

All  of  which  was  inter estin'  enough,  but  it 
didn't  seem  to  help  any.  You  never  can  tell, 
though,  can  you  ?  You  see,  it  was  kind  of  hard, 
breakin'  away  from  Anton  once  he'd  started 
to  get  folksy  and  show  me  what  an  important 
party  he'd  come  to  be.  He  wanted  me  to  see 
the  Warsaw  when  it  was  really  doin'  business, 


160         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

about  ten  o'clock,  after  the  early  picture-show 
crowds  had  let  out  and  the  meetin'  in  the  hall 
overhead  was  in  full  swing. 

"What  sort  of  meetin'?"  I  asks,  just  as  a 
filler. 

"Oh,  some  kind  of  labor  meetin',"  says  he. 
"I  d'know.  They  chin  a  lot.  That's  thirsty 
work.  Good  for  business,  hey?" 

"Is  it  a  labor  union?"  I  insists. 

Anton  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"You  wait,"  says  he.  "Mr.  Stukey,  he'll 
tell  you  all  about  it.  Yes,  an  ear-full.  He's 
a  good  spender,  Stukey.  Hires  the  hall,  too." 

Somehow,  that  listened  like  it  might  be  a 
lead.  But  an  hour  later,  when  I'd  had  a 
chance  to  look  him  over,  I  was  for  passin' 
Stukey  up.  For  he  sure  was  disappointin'  to 
view.  One  of  these  thin,  sallow,  dyspeptic 
parties,  with  deep  lines  down  either  side  of  his 
mouth,  a  bristly,  jutty  little  mustache,  and 
ratty  little  eyes. 

I  expect  Anton  meant  well  when  he  brings 
out  strong,  in  introducin'  me,  how  I'm  con 
nected  with  the  Corrugated  Trust.  In  fact, 
you  might  almost  gather  I  was  the  Corru 
gated.  But  it  don't  make  any  hit  with  Stukey. 

"Hah!"  says  he,  glarin'  at  me  hostile.  "A 
minion. ' ' 


ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA      161 

" Solid  agate  yourself,"  says  I.  "Wha'd'ye 
mean — minion  I ' ' 

"Aren't  you  a  hireling  of  the  capitalistic 
class?"  demands  Stukey. 

"Maybe,"  says  I,  "but  I  ain't  above  mixin' 
with  lower-case  minds  now  and  then." 

"Case?"  says  he.    "I  don't  understand." 

"Perhaps  that's  your  trouble,"  says  I. 

"Bah!"  says  he,  real  peevish. 

"Come,  come,  boys!"  says  Anton,  clappin' 
us  jovial  on  the  shoulders.  "What's  this  all 
about,  hey?  We  are  all  friends  here.  Yes? 
Is  it  that  the  meetin'  goes  wrong,  Mr.  Stukey? 
Tell  us,  now." 

Stukey  shakes  his  head  at  him  warnin'. 
"What  meetin'?"  says  he.  "Don't  be  foolish. 
What  time  is  it?  Ten- twenty!  I  have  an 
engagement. ' ' 

And  with  that  he  struts  off  important. 

Anton  hunches  his  shoulders  and  lets  out 
a  grunt. 

"He  has  it  bad — Stukey,"  says  he.  "It  is 
that  Anna.  Every  night  he  must  walk  home 
with  her." 

"She  ain't  particular,  is  she?"  I  suggests. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  Anton.  "Yes,  he 
is  older,  and  not  a  strong  hearty  man,  like 
some  of  these  young  fellows.  But  he  is  edu- 


162         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

cated;  oh,  like  the  devil.  You  should  hear  him 
talk  once." 

But  Stukey  had  stirred  up  a  stubborn  streak 
in  me. 

' l  Is  he,  though, ' '  says  I, ' '  or  do  you  kid  your 
self!" 

I  thought  that  would  get  a  come-back  out 
of  Anton.  And  it  does. 

"If  I  am  so  foolish,"  says  he,  "would  I  be 
here,  with  my  name  in  gold  above  the  door, 
or  back  shining  shoes  in  the  Corrugated  ar 
cade  yet?  Hey?  I  will  tell  you  this.  Nobodies 
don't  come  and  hire  my  hall  from  me,  fifty  a 
week,  in  advance." 

"Cash  or  checks?"  I  puts  in. 

"If  the  bank  takes  the  checks,  why  should 
I  worry?"  asks  Anton. 

"Oh,  the  first  one  might  be  all  right,"  says 
I,  "and  the  second;  but — well,  you  know  your 
own  business,  I  expect." 

Anton  gazes  at  me  stupid  for  a  minute,  then 
turns  to  his  desk  and  fishes  out  a  bunch  of 
returned  checks.  He  goes  through  'em  rapid 
until  he  has  run  across  the  one  he's  lookin' 
for. 

"Maybe  I  do,"  says  he,  wavin'  it  under  my 
nose  triumphant. 

Which  gives  me  the  glimpse  I'd  been  jockey- 


ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA       163 

in'  for.  The  name  of  that  bank  was  enough. 
From  then  on  I  was  mighty  interested  in  this 
Mortimer  J.  Stukey;  and  while  I  didn't  ex 
actly  use  the  pressure  pump  on  Anton,  I  may 
have  asked  a  few  leadin'  questions.  Who  was 
Stukey,  where  did  he  come  from,  and  what  was 
his  idea — hirin'  halls  and  so  on?  While  An 
ton  could  recognize  a  dollar  a  long  way  off,  he 
wasn't  such  a  keen  observer  of  folks. 

"I  don't  worry  whether  he's  a  Wilson  man 
or  not,"  says  Anton,  "or  which  movie  star  he 
likes  best  after  Mary  Pickford.  If  I  did  I 
should  ask  Anna." 

"Eh?"  says  I,  sort  of  eager. 

"He  tells  her  a  lot  he  don't  tell  me,"  says 
Anton. 

"That's  reasonable,  too,"  says  I.  "Ask 
Anna.  Say,  that  ain't  a  bad  hunch.  Much 
obliged. ' ' 

It  wasn't  so  easy,  though,  with  Stukey  on 
the  job,  to  get  near  enough  to  ask  Anna  any 
thing.  When  they  came  in,  and  Anton  invites 
me  to  join  the  fam'ly  group  in  the  boardin'- 
house  dinin'-room  while  the  cheese  sandwiches 
and  pickles  was  bein'  passed  around,  I  finds 
Stukey  blockin'  me  off  scientific. 

As  Anton  had  said,  he  had  it  bad.  Never 
took  his  eyes  off  Anna  for  a  second.  I  sup- 


164         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

pose  he  thought  he  was  registerin'  tender 
emotions,  but  it  struck  me  as  more  of  a  hun 
gry  look  than  anything  else.  Miss  Sobowski 
seemed  to  like  it,  though. 

I  expect  a  real  lady's  man  wouldn't  have 
had  much  trouble  cuttin'  in  on  Stukey  and 
towin'  Anna  off  into  a  corner.  But  that  ain't 
my  strong  suit.  The  best  I  could  do  was  to 
wait  until  the  next  day,  when  there  was  no 
opposition.  Meantime  I'd  been  usin'  the  long 
distance  reckless;  so  by  the  time  Anna  shows 
up  at  the  Alcazar  to  open  the  window  for  the 
evenin'  sale,  I  was  primed  with  a  good  many 
more  facts  about  a  certain  party  than  I  had 
been  the  night  before.  Stukey  wasn't  quite 
such  a  man  of  mystery  as  he  had  been. 

Course,  I  might  have  gone  straight  to  An 
ton;  but,  somehow,  I  wanted  to  try  out  a  few 
hints  on  Anna.  I  couldn't  say  just  why,  either. 
The  line  of  josh  I  opens  with  ain't  a  bit  subtle. 
It  don't  have  to  be.  Anna  was  tickled  to  pieces 
to  be  kidded  about  her  feller.  She  invites  me 
into  the  box-office,  offers  me  chewin'  gum,  and 
proceeds  to  get  quite  frisky. 

"Ah,  who  was  tellin'  you  that?"  says  she. 
"Can't  a  girl  have  a  gentleman  frien'  without 
everybody's  askin'  is  she  engaged!  Wotcher 
think!" 


ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA      165 

" Tut- tut!"  says  I.  "I  suppose,  when  you 
two  had  your  heads  together  so  close,  he  was 
rehearsin'  one  of  his  speeches  to  you — the 
kind  he  makes  up  in  the  hall,  eh?" 

"Mr.  Stukey  don't  make  no  speeches  there," 
says  Anna.  *  *  He  just  tells  the  others  what  to 
say.  You  ought  to  hear  him  talk,  though. 
My,  sometimes  he's  just  grand!" 

"Urgin'  'em  not  to  quit  work,  I  suppose?" 
says  I. 

"Him?"  says  Anna.  "Not  much.  He  wants 
'em  to  strike,  all  the  time  strike,  until  they 
own  the  shops.  He's  got  no  use  for  rich 
people.  Calls  'em  blood-suckers  and  things 
like  that.  Oh,  he 's  sump  'n  fierce  when  he  talks 
about  the  rich." 

"Is  he?"  says  I.     "I  wonder  why?" 

"All  the  workers  get  like  that,"  says  Anna. 
"Mr.  Stukey  says  that  pretty  soon  everybody 
will  join — all  but  the  rich  blood-suckers,  and 
they'll  be  in  jail.  He  was  poor  himself  once. 
So  was  I,  you  know,  in  Poland.  But  we  got 

along  until  the  Germans  came,  and  then 

Ugh!  I  don't  like  to  remember." 

"Anton  was  tellin'  me,"  says  I.  "You  lost 
some  of  your  folks." 

"Lost!"  says  Anna,  a  panicky  look  comin' 
into  her  big  eyes.  "You  call  it  that?  I  saw 


166          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

my  father  shot,  my  two  brothers  dragged  off 
to  work  in  the  trenches,  and  my  sister — oh, 
I  can't!  I  can't  say  it!" 

"Then  don't  tell  Stukey,"  says  I,  "if  you 
want  to  keep  stringin'  him  along." 

"But  why!"  demands  Anna. 

"Because,"  says  I,  "the  money  he's  spend- 
in'  so  free  around  here  comes  from  them — the 
Germans." 

"No,  no!"  says  Anna,  whisperin'  husky. 
"That— that's  a  He!" 

"Sorry,"  says  I;  "but  I  got  his  number 
straight.  He  was  workin'  for  a  German  in 
surance  company  up  to  1915,  bookkeepin'  at 
ninety  a  month.  Then  he  got  the  ghuck.  He 
came  near  starvin'.  It  was  when  he  was  al 
most  in  that  he  went  crawlin'  back  to  'em, 
and  they  gave  him  this  job.  If  you  don't 
believe  it's  German  money  he's  spendin'  ask 
Anton  to  show  you  some  of  Stukey 's  canceled 
checks. ' ' 

"But — but  he's  English,"  protests  Anna. 
"Anyway,  his  father  was." 

"The  Huns  don't  mind  who  they  buy  up," 
says  I. 

She's  still  starin*  at  me,  sort  of  stunned. 

"German  money!"  she  repeats.    "Him!" 

"Anton  will  show  you  the  checks,"  says  I. 


ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA      167 

"He  don't  care  where  they  come  from,  so  long 
as  he  can  cash  'em.  But  you  might  hint  to 
him  that  if  another  big  strike  is  pulled  it  '&  apt 
to  be  a  long  one,  and  in  that  case  the  movie 
business  will  get  a  crimp  put  in  it.  The  War 
saw  receipts,  too.  I  take  it  that  Stukey's  try- 
in'  to  work  the  hands  up  to  a  point  where 
they'll  vote  for ': 

"To-night  they  vote,"  breaks  in  Anna.  "In 
two  hours." 

I  lets  out  a  whistle.  "Zowie!"  says  I. 
"Guess  I'm  a  little  late.  Say,  you  got  a  'phone 
here.  Would  it  do  any  good  if  you  called 
Anton  up  and " 


t  i ' 


!No,"  snaps  Anna.  "He  thinks  too  slow. 
I  must  do  this  myself." 

"You?"  says  I.    "What  could  you  do?" 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Anna.  "But  I  must 
try.  And  quick.  Hey,  Marson!  You — at  the 
door.  Come  here  and  sell  the  tickets.  Put  an 
usher  in  your  place." 

With  that  she  bounces  down  off  the  tall 
chair,  shoves  the  substitute  into  her  place, 
and  goes  streamin'  out  bare-headed.  I  decides 
to  follow.  But  she  leaves  me  behind  as  though 
I'd  been  standin'  still. 

At  the  Warsaw  I  finds  Anton  smokin'  placid 
in  his  little  office. 


168         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOKCHY 

"Seen  Anna?'*  I  asks. 

"Anna!"  says  he.  "She  should  be  selling 
tickets  at  the : 

"She  was,"  says  I;  "but  just  now  she's  up 
stairs  in  the  hall." 

"At  the  meetin'?"  gasps  Anton.  "Anna? 
Oh,  no!" 

"Come,  take  a  look,"  says  I. 

And,  for  once  in  his  life,  Anton  got  a 
quick  move  on.  He  don't  ask  me  to  follow, 
but  I  trails  along;  and  just  as  we  strikes  the 
top  stair  we  hears  a  rousin'  cheer  go  up.  I 
suppose  any  other  time  we'd  been  barred  out, 
but  there's  nobody  to  hold  us  up  as  we  pushes 
through,  for  everyone  has  their  eyes  glued 
on  the  little  stage  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall. 

No  wonder.  For  there,  standin'  up  before 
more  than  three  hundred  yellin'  men,  is  this 
high-colored  young  woman. 

Course,  I  couldn't  get  a  word  of  it,  my  Po 
lish  education  bavin'  been  sadly  neglected  when 
I  was  young.  But  Anna  seems  to  be  tellin' 
some  sort  of  story.  My  guess  was  that  it's 
the  one  she'd  hinted  at  to  me — about  her 
father  and  brothers  and  sister.  But  this  time 
she  seems  to  be  throwin'  in  all  the  details. 

There  was  nothin'  frivolous  about  Anna's 
eyes  now.  It  almost  gave  me  a  creepy  feelin' 


a 


ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA 

to  watch  'em — as  if  she  was  seein'  things  again 
that  she'd  like  to  forget— awful  things.  And 
she  was  makin'  those  three  hundred  men  see 
the  same  things. 

All  of  a  sudden  she  breaks  off,  covers  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  shivers.  Then,  quick 
as  a  flash,  she  turns  and  points  to  Stukey.  I 
caught  his  name  as  she  hisses  it  out.  Stukey, 
turnin'  a  sickly  yellow,  slumps  in  his  chair. 
Another  second,  and  she's  turned  back  to  the 
men  out  front.  She  is  puttin'  something  up 
to  them — a  question,  straight  from  the  shoulder. 

The  first  to  make  a  move  is  a  squatty,  thick- 
necked  gent  with  one  eye  walled  out.  He 
jumps  on  a  chair,  shouts  a  few  excited  words, 
waves  his  long  arms,  and  starts  for  the  stage 
businesslike.  The  next  thing  I  knew  the  riot 
was  on,  with  Mortimer  J.  Stukey  playin'  the 
heavy  lead  and  bein'  tossed  around  like  a 
rat. 

It  must  have  been  Anton  that  switched  off 
the  lights  and  sent  for  the  police.  I  didn't 
stop  to  ask.  Bein'  near  the  door,  I  felt  my 
way  downstairs  and  made  a  quick  exit.  Course, 
the  ceremonies  promised  to  continue  interest- 
in',  but  somehow  this  struck  me  as  a  swell 
time  for  me  to  quit.  So  I  strolls  back  to  the 
hotel  and  goes  to  bed. 


170         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

Yes,  I  was  some  curious  to  know  how  the 
muss  ended,  but  I  didn't  hurry  around  next 
mornin'.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'd  enjoyed 
the  society  of  the  Sobowskis  quite  a  lot  dur- 
in'  the  past  two  days,  and  I  thought  I'd 
better  stay  away  for  a  while.  They're 
a  strenuous  bunch  when  they're  stirred 
up — even  a  kittenish  young  thing  like 
Anna. 

About  noon  I  'phoned  the  works,  and  found 
that  all  was  serene  there,  with  no  signs  of  a 
strike  yet. 

"No,  and  I  got  a  hunch  there  won't  be  any, 
either,"  says  I. 

I  was  plannin'  to  linger  in  Bridgeport  an 
other  day  or  so ;  but  when  the  afternoon  paper 
came  out  I  changed  my  mind.  Accordin'  to 
the  police-court  reporter's  account,  there 'd 
been  some  little  disturbance  in  Warsaw  Hall 
the  night  before,  Seems  a  stranger  by  the 
name  of  Stukey  had  butted  into  a  meetin'  of 
the  Pulaski  Social  Club,  and  had  proceeded 
to  get  so  messy  that  it  had  been  found  neces 
sary  to  throw  him  out.  Half  a  dozen  witnesses 
told  how  rude  he'd  been,  includin'  the  well- 
known  citizen,  Mr.  Anton  Sobowski,  who  owned 
the  premises.  The  said  Stukey  had  been  a  bit 
damaged;  but  after  he'd  been  patched  up  at 


ALL  THE  WAY  WITH  ANNA      171 

the  City  Hospital  he'd  been  promised  a  nice 
long  rest — thirty  days,  to  be  exact. 

So  I  jumps  the  next  train  back  to  Broad 
way. 

4 'Ah,  Lieutenant!"  says  Mr.  Ellins,  glanc- 
in'  up  from  his  desk.  "Find  anything  up 
there?" 

"Uh-huh,"  says  I.  "His  name  was  Stukey. 
Another  case  of  drawin'  his  pay  from  Berlin." 

"Hah!"  grunts  Old  Hickory,  bitin'  into  his 
cigar.  "The  long  arm  again.  But  can't  you 
recommend  something?" 

"Sure!"  says  I.  "If  we  could  find  a  pair 
of  gold  boots  about  eighteen  buttons  high,  we 
ought  to  send  'em  to  Anna  Sobowski." 


CHAPTER  XI 

AT   THE   THEN   WITH   WILFBED 

I  EXPECT  Mr.  Robert  overstated  the  case  a 
bit.  He  was  more  or  less  hectic  back  of  the 
ears  about  then,  havin'  just  broken  away  after 
a  half-hour  session  with  Mrs.  Stanton  Bliss. 

"That  woman,"  says  he,  slumpin'  into  a 
chair  and  moppin'  his  brow,  "has  the  mental 
equipment  of  a  pet  rabbit  and  the  disposition 
of  a  setting  hen.  Good  Lord!" 

I  looks  over  at  Vee  and  grins.  Had  to.  It 
ain't  often  you  see  Mr.  Robert  like  that.  And 
him  bein'  all  dolled  up  in  his  nifty  navy  uni 
form  made  it  seem  just  that  much  funnier. 
But  Vee  don't  grin  back.  She'd  sympathize 
with  'most  anybody.  At  that  exact  minute, 
I'll  bet  she  was  bein'  sorry  for  both  of  'em 
all  in  the  same  breath,  as  you  might  say. 

"But  can't  something  be  done — somehow?" 
she  asks. 

"Not  by  me,"  says  Mr.  Robert,  decided. 
"Great  marlinspikes !  I'm  not  the  war  depart 
ment,  am  I?  I'm  only  a  first-grade  lieutenant 

172 


AT  THE  TURN  WITH  WILFEED     173 

in  command  of  a  blessed,  smelly  old  men 
haden  trawler  that's  posing  as  a  mine-sweeper. 
I  am  supposed  to  be  enjoying  a  twenty-four 
hour  shore  leave  in  the  peace  and  quiet  of 
my  home,  and  I  get — this." 

He  waves  his  hand  toward  the  other  room, 
where  the  afore-mentioned  Mrs.  Stanton  Bliss 
is  sobbin,  sniffin',  and  otherwise  registerin* 
deep  emotion  by  clawin'  Mrs.  Robert  about  the 
shoulders  and  wavin'  away  the  smellin'  Baits. 

"If  it  was  the  first  time,"  growls  Mr. 
Robert.  "But  it  isn't." 

That  was  true,  too.  You  see,  we'd  heard 
somethin'  about  the  other  spasms.  They'd 
begun  along  in  July,  when  the  awful  news 
came  out  that  Wilfred's  red  ink  number  had 
been  plucked  from  the  jar.  Now  you  get  it, 
don't  you?  Nothing  unique.  The  same  little 
old  tragedy  that  was  bein'  staged  in  a  million 
homes,  includin'  four-room  flats,  double-decker 
tenements,  and  boardin '-houses. 

Only  this  happened  to  hit  the  forty-room 
country  house  of  the  Stanton  Blisses.  Course, 
it  was  different.  Look  who  was  bein'  stirred 
up  by  it. 

So  mother  had  begun  throwin'  cat-fits. 
She'd  tackled  everyone  she  knew,  demandin' 
to  know  what  was  to  be  done  to  keep  Wilfred 


174         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

out  of  it.  Among  others,  of  course,  she'd  held 
up  Mr.  Robert.  Wasn't  he  their  nearest  neigh 
bor,  and  hadn't  the  Blisses  entertained  the  El- 
linses  a  lot?  Not  that  she  put  it  that  way, 
exactly.  But  when  she  came  with  this  hunch 
about  gettin'  sonny  a  snap  job  on  some  sort 
of  naval  construction  work,  why,  of  course, 
Mr.  Robert  couldn  't  duck.  Yes,  he  thought  he 
could  place  Wilfred.  And  he  did — time-keeper, 
six-hour  shift,  and  near  enough  so  he  could 
run  back  and  forth  every  day  in  his  machine. 

That  might  have  been  good  enough  for  some 
folks.  It  meant  dodgin'  the  draft  for  Wil 
fred,  dead  sure.  But  mother  didn't  stay  satis 
fied  long.  She  went  investigatin'  around  the 
plant.  She  found  the  office  stuffy,  Wilfred's 
desk  had  no  electric  fan  on  it,  she  wasn't  sure 
of  the  drinkin'  water,  and  the  foreman  was 
quite  an  impossible  sort  of  person  who  always 
sneered  when  he  had  anything  to  say  to  Wil 
fred.  Couldn't  Mr.  Robert  attend  to  some  of 
these  things'?  Mr.  Robert  said  he'd  try — if  he 
had  time.  He  didn't  get  the  time.  More  visits 
from  mother. 

Then  this  latest  catastrophe.  The  Stanton 
Blisses  had  been  away  from  home  for  three 
weeks  or  more,  house-partyin'  and  motorin' 
through  the  mountains.  Poor  Wilfred  had  had 


AT  THE  TURN  WITH  WILFRED     175 

to  stay  behind.  What  a  stupidly  distressin' 
thing  war  was,  wasn't  it!  But  he  had  been 
asked  to  spend  his  nights  and  Sundays  with  a 
college  chum  whose  home  was  several  miles 
nearer  the  works. 

And  then  they  had  come  back  to  find  this 
scribbled  note.  Things  had  been  gettin'  worse 
and  worse,  Wilfred  wrote.  Some  young  hood 
lums  around  the  plant  had  shouted  after  him 
as  he  drove  off  in  his  car.  Even  young  girls. 
The  men  had  been  surly  to  him,  and  that 

beastly  foreman Well,  he  wasn't  goin'  to 

stand  for  it,  that  was  all.  He  didn't  know 
just  what  he  was  goin'  to  do,  but  he  was  clear- 
in'  out.  They'd  hear  from  him  later. 

They  had.  This  six-word  message  from 
Philadelphia,  dated  nearly  two  weeks  ago,  was 
also  waitin'.  It  said  that  he'd  enlisted,  was 
all  right,  and  for  them  not  to  worry.  Nothin' 
more. 

You  couldn't  blame  mother  for  bein'  stirred 
up.  Her  Wilfred  had  gone.  Somewhere  in 
some  army  camp  or  other,  or  at  some  naval 
trainin'  station,  the  son  and  heir  of  the  house 
of  Bliss  was  minglin'  with  the  coarse  sons  of 
the  common  people,  was  eatin'  common  food, 
was  wearin'  common  clothes,  was  goin'  up 
against  the  common  thing  generally.  And  that 


176         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

wasn't  the  worst  of  it.  Where?  Why  didn't 
Mr.  Robert  tell  her  where?  And  couldn't  he 
get  him  away  at  once?  Mr.  Robert  had  almost 
gone  hoarse  tryin'  to  explain  why  he  couldn't. 
But  after  every  try  she'd  come  back  with  this 
wail: 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  understand  what  it  is 
to  be  a  mother!" 

" Thank  the  stars  I  don't!"  says  he,  as  he 
marches  out  of  the  room. 

I  was  for  clearin'  out  so  he'd  be  free  to 
shoo  her  in  any  style  he  wanted  to.  We'd 
been  havin'  dinner  with  the  Ellinses,  Vee  and 
I,  and  it  was  time  to  go  home  anyway.  But 
there's  no  budgin'  Vee. 

"Don't  you  think  Torchy  might  find  out 
where  he  is?"  she  suggests.  "Bein'  in  the 
army  himself,  you  know,  and  so  clever  at  that 
sort  of  thing,  I  should  think ' 

"Why,  to  be  sure,"  breaks  in  Mr.  Robert, 
perkin'  up  all  of  a  sudden  and  starin'  at  me. 
"Lieutenant  Torchy  to  the  rescue,  of  course. 
He's  the  very  one." 

"Ah,  say,  how'd  you  get  that  way?"  says 
I.  "Back  up!" 

He's  off,  though,  callin'  Mrs.  Stanton  Bliss. 
And  before  I  can  escape  he's  sickin'  her  on 
real  enthusiastic.  Also  there's  Vee  urgin'  me 


AT  THE  TURN  WITH  WILFRED     177 

to  see  if  I  can't  do  something  to  locate  Wil 
fred.    So  I  had  to  make  the  stab. 

4 'Got  that  wire  with  you!"  I  asks. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Bliss  had  all  the  documents  right 
handy.  I  takes  the  yellow  sheet  over  under 
the  readin'  lamp  and  squints  at  it  sleuthy, 
partly  to  kill  time,  and  partly  because  I  could 
n't  think  of  anything  else  to  do.  And  of  course 
they  all  have  to  gather  round  and  watch  me 
close,  as  if  I  was  about  to  pull  some  miracle. 
Foolish!  It  was  a  great  deal  worse  than 
that. 

( ' H-m-m-m-m ! "  says  I.  "Philadelphia.  I 
suppose  there's  some  sort  of  naval  trainin' 
station  there,  eh?" 

Mr.  Robert  says  there  is. 

''But  if  Wilfred  was  at  it,"  I  goes  on,  "and 
didn't  want  you  to  find  him,  he  wouldn't  have 
sent  this  from  there,  would  he?" 

Mrs.  Stanton  Bliss  sighs.  "I'm  sure  I  don't 
know,"  says  she.  "I — I  suppose  not." 

"Must  be  somewhere  within  strikin'  dis 
tance  of  Philadelphia,  though,"  says  I.  "Now, 
what  camp  is  near?" 

"Couldn't  we  wire  someone  in  Washington 
and  find  out?"  asks  Mrs.  Bliss. 

"Sure,"  says  I.  "And  we'd  get  an  official 
answer  from  the  Secretary  of  War  about  11 


178         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

A.M.  next  spring.  It'll  be  a  lot  quicker  to  call 
up  Whitey  Weeks." 

They  don't  know  everything  in  newspaper 
offices,  but  there  are  mighty  few  things  they 
can't  find  out.  Whitey,  though,  didn't  even 
have  to  consult  the  copy  desk  or  the  clippin' 
bureau. 

"About  the  nearest  big  one,"  says  he,  "is 
the  Ambulance  Corps  Camp  at  Allentown. 
Somewhere  up  on  the  Lehigh.  S'long." 

Here  was  another  jolt  for  Mrs.  Stanton 
Bliss.  The  Ambulance  Corps!  She  near 
keeled  over  again,  just  hearin'  me  say  it.  Oh, 
oh!  Did  I  really  believe  Wilfred  could  have 
been  as  rash  as  that? 

"Why,"  says  she,  "they  drive  right  up  to 
the  trenches,  don't  they?  Isn't  that  fearfully 
dangerous?" 

"War  isn't  a  parlor  pastime,"  puts  in  Mr. 
Robert.  "And  the  ambulance  drivers  take 
their  chances  with  the  rest  of  the  men.  But 
there's  no  fightin'  going  on  at  Allentown.  If 
Wilfred  is  there " 

"If  he  is,"  cuts  in  Mrs.  Bliss,  "I  must  go  to 
him  this  very  moment." 

Some  way  that  statement  seemed  to  cheer 
Mr.  Robert  up  a  lot. 

"Naturally,"  says  he.    "I'll  look  up  a  train 


AT  THE  TURN  WITH  WILFRED     179 

for  you.  Just  a  second.  In  the  A's.  Allen- 
town — Allen.  Ah,  page  156.  M-m-m.  Here 
you  are.  First  one  starts  at  2  A.M.  and  gets 
you  in  at  5.15.  Will  that  do?" 

Mrs.  Bliss  turns  on  him  sort  of  dazed,  and 
blinks  them  round  eyes  of  hers.  She's  a  fairly 
well  put  up  old  girl,  you  know,  built  sort  of  on 
the  pouter-pigeon  type,  but  with  good  lines 
below  the  waist,  and  a  complexion  that  she's 
taken  lots  of  pains  with.  Dresses  real  classy, 
and,  back  to,  she's  often  mistaken  for  daughter 
Marion.  Travels  in  quite  a  gay  bunch,  I  under 
stand,  with  Mr.  Stanton  Bliss  kind  of  trailin' 
along  behind.  Usually,  when  she  ain't  indulg- 
in'  in  hysterics,  she  has  very  fetchin'  kittenish 
ways.  You  know  the  kind.  Their  specialty's 
makin'  the  surroundin'  males  jump  through 
the  hoop  for  'em.  But  when  it  comes  to  arriv- 
in'  anywhere  at  5.15  A.M. — well,  not  for  her. 

"I  should  be  a  sight,"  says  she. 

"You'd  still  be  a  mother,  wouldn't  you?" 
asks  Mr.  Robert. 

It  was  rough  of  him,  as  he  was  given  to 
understand  by  the  looks  of  all  three  ladies 
present,  includin'  Mrs.  Robert;  so  he  tries  to 
square  himself  by  lookin'  up  a  ten  o'clock 
train,  all  Pullman,  with  diner  and  observation. 

"I  would  gladly  take  you  up  myself,"  says 


180         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

he,  lyin '  fluent,  * '  if  I  didn  't  have  to  go  back  to 
my  boat.  But  here  is  Torchy.  He'll  go,  I 
suppose." 

"Of  course,"  says  Vee. 

And  that's  how  I  came  to  be  occupyin' 
drawin '-room  A,  along  with  mother  and  sister 
Marion,  as  we  breezes  up  into  the  Pennsylvania 
hills  on  this  Wilfred  hunt.  A  gushy,  giggly 
young  party  Marion  is,  but  she  turns  out  to 
be  quite  a  help.  It  was  her  who  spots  the 
two  young  soldiers  driftin'  through  towards 
the  smokin'  compartment,  and  suggests  that 
maybe  they're  goin'  to  the  same  camp. 

"And  they  would  know  if  Wilfred  Was 
there,  wouldn't  they?"  she  adds. 

"Maybe,"  says  I.    "I'll  go  ask." 

Nice,  clean-cut  young  chaps  they  was. 
They'd  stretched  out  comfortable  on  the 
leather  seats,  and  was  enjoyin'  a  perfectly 
good  smoke,  until  I  shows  up.  The  minute  I 
appears,  though,  they  chucks  their  cigars  and 
jumps  up,  heels  together,  right  hand  to  the 
hat-brim.  That's  what  I  get  by  havin'  this 
dinky  bar  on  my  shoulders. 

"Can  it,  boys,"  says  I.    "This  is  unofficial." 

"At  ease,  sir?"  suggests  one. 

"As  easy  as  you  know  how,"  says  I. 

Yes,  they  says  they're  ambulancers;  on  their 


AT  THE  TURN  WITH  WILFRED     181 

way  back  to  Allentown,  too.  But  they  didn't 
happen  to  know  of  any  Wilfred  Stanton  Bliss 
there. 

"You  see,  sir,"  says  one,  " there  are  about 
five  thousand  of  us,  so  he  might " 

"Sure!"  says  I.  "But  mother '11  want  an 
affidavit.  Would  you  mind  droppin'  in  and 
bein'  cross-examined?  There's  sister  Marion, 
too." 

Obligin'  chaps,  they  were;  let  me  tow  'em 
into  the  drawin'-room,  listened  patient  while 
Mrs.  Bliss  described  just  how  Wilfred  looked, 
and  tried  their  best  to  remember  havin'  seen 
such  a  party.  Also  they  gave  her  their  ex 
pert  opinion  on  how  long  the  war  was  goin' 
to  last,  when  Wilfred  would  be  sent  over,  and 
what  chances  he  stood  of  comin'  back  without 
a  scratch. 

Once  more  it  was  Marion  who  threw  the 
switch. 

"Tell  me,"  says  she,  "will  he  be  wearing  a 
uniform  just  like  yours?" 

They  said  he  would. 

"Oh!"  gurgles  Marion,  "I  think  it  is  per 
fectly  spiffy.  Don't  you,  mother?  I'm  just 
crazy  to  see  Wilfred  in  one." 

Mother  catches  the  enthusiasm.  "My  noble 
boy!"  says  she,  rollin'  her  eyes  up. 


182         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

From  then  on  she's  quite  chipper.  The 
idea  of  findin'  sonny  made  over  into  a  smart, 
dashin'  soldier  seemed  to  crowd  out  all  the 
panicky  thoughts  she'd  been  havin'.  From 
little  hints  she  let  drop,  I  judged  that  she  was 
already  picturin'  him  as  a  gallant  hero,  strut- 
tin'  around  haughty  and  givin'  off  stern  com 
mands.  Maybe  he'd  been  made  a  captain  or 
something.  Surely  they  would  soon  see  that 
her  Wilfred  ought  to  be  an  officer  of  some 
kind. 

"And  we  must  have  his  portrait  painted," 
she  remarks,  claspin'  her  hands  excited  as 
the  happy  thought  strikes  her. 

The  boys  looked  steady  out  of  the  window 
and  managed  to  smother  the  smiles.  I  imagine 
they'd  seen  all  sorts  of  mothers  come  to  camp. 

It's  a  lively  little  burg,  Allentown,  even  if 
I  didn't  know  it  was  on  the  map  before.  At 
the  station  you  take  a  trolley  that  runs  straight 
through  the  town  and  out  to  the  fair  grounds, 
where  the  camp  is  located.  Goin'  up  the  hill, 
you  pass  through  the  square  and  by  the  Sol 
diers'  Monument.  Say,  it's  some  monument, 
too.  Then  out  a  long  street  lined  with  nice, 
comf ortable-lookin '  homes,  until  you  get  a 
glimpse  of  blue  hills  rollin'  away  as  far  as 
you  can  see,  and  there  you  are. 


AT  THE  TURN  WITH  WILFRED     183 

The  boys  piloted  us  past  the  guard  at  the 
gates,  through  a  grove  of  trees,  and  left  us 
at  the  information  bureau,  where  a  soldier 
wearin'  shell-rimmed  glasses  listened  patient 
while  mother  and  sister  both  talked  at 
once. 

"Bliss?  Just  a  moment,"  says  he,  reachin' 
for  a  card-index  box.  "Yes,  ma'am.  Wilfred 
Stanton.  He's  here." 

"But  where?"  demands  Mrs.  Bliss. 

"Why,"  says  the  soldier,  "he's  listed  with 
the  casuals  just  now.  Quartered  in  the  cow- 
barn." 

"The — the  cow-barn!"  gasps  Mrs.  Bliss. 

The  soldier  grins. 

"It's  over  that  way,"  says  he,  wavin'  his 
hand.  "Anyone  will  tell  you." 

They  did.  We  wandered  on  and  on,  past 
the  parade  ground  that  used  to  be  the  trottin' 
track,  past  new  barracks  that  was  being 
knocked  together  hasty,  until  we  comes  to  this 
dingy  white  buildin'  with  all  the  underwear 
hung  up  to  dry  around  it.  I  took  one  glance 
inside,  where  the  cots  was  stacked  in  thick  and 
soldiers  was  loafin'  around  in  various  stages 
of  dress  and  undress,  and  then  I  shooed  mother 
and  sister  off  a  ways  while  I  went  scoutin'  in 
alone.  At  a  desk  made  out  of  a  packin'-box 


184         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

I  found  a  chap  hammerin'  away  at  a  type 
writer.  He  salutes  and  goes  to  attention. 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  he,  when  I've  told  him 
who  I'm  lookin'  for.  "Squeaky  Bliss.  But 
he's  on  duty  just  now,  sir." 

I  suggests  that  his  mother  and  sister  are 
here  and  would  like  to  have  a  glimpse  of  him 
right  away. 

"They'd  better  wait  until  after  five,  sir," 
says  he. 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  try  holdin'  'em  in  that 
long,"  says  I. 

"Very  well,  sir,"  says  he.  " Squeaky 's  on 
fatigue.  Somewhere  down  at  the  further  end 
of  the  grand  stand  you  might  catch  him.  But 
if  it's  his  mother — well,  I'd  wait." 

I  passes  this  advice  on  to  Mrs.  Bliss. 

"The  idea!"  says  she.  "I  wish  to  see  my 
noble  soldier  boy  at  once.  Come." 

So  we  went.  There  was  no  scarcity  of 
young  fellows  in  olive  drab.  The  place  was 
thick  with  'em.  Squads  were  drillin'  every 
way  you  looked,  and  out  in  the  center  of  the 
field,  where  two  or  three  hundred  new  ambu 
lances  were  lined  up,  more  squads  were  study- 
in'  the  insides  of  the  motor,  or  practicin' 
loadin'  in  stretchers.  Hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  young  fellows  in  uniform,  all  lookin'  just 


AT  THE  TURN  WITH  WILFRED     185 

alike.  I  didn't  wonder  that  mother  couldn't 
pick  out  sonny  boy. 

"What  was  it  that  man  said!"  she  asks. 
"  Wilfred  on  fatigue.  Does  that  mean  he  is 
resting?" 

"Not  exactly,"  says  I. 

About  then  sister  Marion  begins  to  exhibit 
jumpy  emotions. 

"Mother!  Mother!"  says  she,  starin' 
straight  ahead.  "Look!" 

All  I  could  see  was  a  greasy  old  truck 
backed  up  in  front  of  some  low  windows  under 
the  grand  stand,  with  half  a  dozen  young 
toughs  in  smeary  blue  overalls  jugglin'  a  load 
of  galvanized  iron  cans.  Looked  like  garbage 
cans;  smelled  that  way  too.  And  the  gang 
that  was  handlin'  'em — well,  most  of  'em 
had  had  their  heads  shaved,  and  in  that  rig 
they  certainly  did  look  like  a  bunch  from  Sing 
Sing. 

I  was  just  nudgin'  sister  to  move  along, 
when  Mrs.  Bliss  lets  out  this  choky  cry: 

"Wilfred!"  says  she. 

She  hadn't  made  any  mistake,  either.  It 
was  sonny,  all  right.  And  you  should  have 
seen  his  face  as  he  swings  around  and  finds 
who's  watchin'  him.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
bunkie  who  was  helpin'  him  lift  that  can  of 


186          THE  HOUSE  OF  TOKCHY 

sloppy  stuff  on  to  the  tail  of  the  truck,  there  'd 
been  a  fine  spill,  too. 

"My  boy!  Wilfred!"  calls  Mrs.  Stanton 
Bliss,  holdin'  out  her  arms  invitin'  and  dra 
matic. 

Now,  in  the  first  place,  Wilfred  was  in  no 
shape  to  be  the  party  of  the  second  part  in 
a  motherly  clinch  act.  It's  messy  work,  load- 
in'  garbage  cans,  and  he's  peeled  down  for  it. 
He  was  costumed  in  a  pair  of  overalls  that 
would  have  stood  in  the  corner  all  by  them 
selves,  and  an  army  undershirt  with  one  sleeve 
half  ripped  off. 

In  the  second  place,  all  the  rest  of  the  bunch 
was  wearin'  broad  grins,  and  he  knew  it.  So 
he  don't  rush  over  at  once.  Instead  he  steps 
around  to  the  front  of  the  truck  and  salutes 
a  husky,  freckled-necked  young  sergeant  who's 
sittin'  behind  the  steerin'  wheel. 

"Family,  sir,"  says  Wilfred.  "What— 
what '11  I  do?" 

The  sergeant  takes  one  look  over  his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  well,"  says  he,  "drop  out  until  next 
load." 

Not  until  Wilfred  had  led  us  around  the 
corner  does  he  express  his  feelin's. 

"For  the  love  of  Mike,  mother!"  says  he. 
'"Wasn't  it  bad  enough  without  your  springin' 


that  <muh  boy!'  stuff?  Bight  before  all  the 
fellows,  too.  Good-night!" 

"But,  Wilfred,"  insists  mother,  "what  does 
this  mean?  Why  do  I  find  you — well,  like 
this?  Oh,  it's  too  dreadful  for  words.  WTio 
has  done  this  to  you — and  why?" 

Jerky,  little  by  little,  Wilfred  sketches  out 
the  answer.  Army  life  wasn't  what  he'd  ex 
pected.  Not  at  all.  He  was  sore  on  the  whole 
business.  He'd  been  let  in  for  it,  that  was  all. 
It  wasn't  so  bad  for  some  of  the  fellows,  but 
they'd  been  lucky.  As  for  him — well,  he'd 
come  here  to  learn  to  be  an  ambulance  driver, 
and  he  had  spent  his  first  week  in  the  kitchen, 
peelin'  potatoes.  Then,  when  they'd  let  him 
off  that,  and  given  him  his  first  pass  to  go  to 
town,  just  because  he'd  been  a  little  late  comin' 
back  they'd  jumped  on  him  somethin'  fierce. 
They'd  shoved  him  on  this  garbage  detail. 
He'd  been  on  it  ever  since. 

"It's  that  mucker  of  a  top  sergeant,  Quig- 
ley,"  says  Wilfred.  "He's  got  it  in  for 
me." 

Mrs.  Stanton  Bliss  straightens  out  her  chin 
dimple  as  she  glares  after  the  garbage  truck, 
which  is  rollin'  away  in  the  distance. 

"Has  he,  indeed!"  says  she.  "We  will  see 
about  that,  then." 


188         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"But  you  must  handle  him  easy,  mother, " 
warns  Wilfred. 

"That  person !"  snorts  mother.  "I  shall 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him  whatever.  I 
mean  to  get  you  out  of  this,  Wilfred.  I  am  go 
ing  straight  to  the  general." 

"Now,  mother!"  protests  Wilfred.  "Don't 
make  a  scene." 

When  she  was  properly  stirred  up,  though, 
that  was  mother's  long  suit.  And  she  starts 
right  in.  Course,  I  tried  to  head  her  off,  but 
it's  no  use.  As  there  wasn't  a  general  handy, 
she  had  to  be  satisfied  with  a  major.  Seemed 
like  a  mighty  busy  major,  too;  but  when  he 
heard  his  orderly  tryin'  to  shunt  the  ladies,  he 
gives  the  signal  to  let  'em  in.  You  can  bet 
I  didn't  follow.  Didn't  have  to,  for  Mrs.  Bliss 
wasn't  doin'  any  whisperin'  about  then. 

And  she  sure  made  it  plain  to  the  major 
how  little  she  thought  of  the  U.  S.  Army,  and 
specially  that  part  of  it  located  at  Allentown, 
Pa.  Havin'  got  that  off  her  chest,  and  been 
listened  to  patient,  she  demands  that  Wilfred 
be  excused  from  all  his  disgustin'  duties,  and 
be  allowed  to  go  home  with  her  at  once  and  for 
good. 

The  major  shakes  his  head.  "Impossible!" 
says  he. 


AT  THE  TURN  WITH  WILFRED     189 

"Then,"  says  Mrs.  Stanton  Bliss,  tossin* 
her  head,  "I  shall  appeal  to  the  Secretary  of 
War;  to  the  President,  if  necessary." 

The  major  smiles  weary.  "You'd  best  talk 
to  his  sergeant,"  says  he.  "If  he  recommends 
your  son's  discharge  it  may  go  through." 

"That  person!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Bliss. 
"Never!  I — I  might  talk  to  his  captain." 

"Useless,  madam,"  says  the  major.  "See 
his  sergeant;  he's  the  one." 

And  he  signifies  polite  that  the  interview  is 
over. 

When  mother  tells  sonny  the  result  of  this 
visit  to  headquarters,  he  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"I  knew  it  would  be  that  way,"  says  he. 
"They've  got  me,  and  I've  got  to  stand  for  it. 
No  use  askin'  Quigley.  You  might  as  well  go 
home." 

"But  at  least  you  can  get  away  long  enough 
to  have  dinner  with  us,"  says  mother. 

"Nothing  doin',"  says  Wilfred.  "Can't  get 
out  unless  Quigley  signs  a  pass,  and  he 
won't." 

"Oh,  come!"  says  I.  "He  don't  look  so  bad 
as  all  that.  Let  me  see  what  I  can  do  with 
him." 

Well,  after  I'd  chased  the  ladies  back  to  the 
hotel  with  instructions  to  wait  hopeful,  I  hunts 


190          THE  HOUSE  OF  TOKCHY 

up  Top  Sergeant  Quigley.  Had  quite  a  re- 
vealin'  chat  with  him,  too.  Come  to  look  at 
him  close  after  he'd  washed  up,  he's  rather 
decent  appearin'.  Face  seems  sort  of  familiar, 
too. 

"Didn't  you  play  first  base  for  the  Ford- 
hams?"  I  asks. 

"Oh,  that  was  back  in  '14,"  says  he. 

"As  I  remember,"  says  I,  "you  was  some 
star  on  the  bag,  though.  Now,  about  young 
Bliss.  Case  of  mommer's  pet,  you  know." 

"He  had  that  tag  all  over  him,"  says  Quig 
ley.  "But  we're  knockin'  a  lot  of  that  out  of 
him.  He's  comin'  on." 

"Good!"  says  I.  "Would  it  stop  the  process 
to  let  him  off  for  an  evenin'  with  the  folks — 
dinner  and  so  on?" 

"Why,  no;  I  guess  not,"  says  Quigley. 
"Might  do  him  good.  But  he  must  apply 
himself.  Send  him  along." 

So  a  half  hour  later  I  sat  on  a  cot  in  the 
cow-barn  and  watched  Wilfred,  fresh  from  the 
shower  bath,  get  into  his  army  uniform. 

"Say,"  he  remarks,  strugglin'  through  his 
khaki  shirt,  "I  didn't  think  old  Quig  would 
do  it." 

"Seemed  glad  to,"  says  I.  "Said  you  was 
comin'  on  fine." 


AT  THE  TURN  WITH  WILFRED     191 

'"  He  did?  "gasps  Wilfred.  "Quigley?  Well, 
what  do  you  know!" 

Not  such  a  bad  imitation  of  a  soldier,  Wil 
fred,  when  he'd  laced  up  the  leggins  and  got 
the  snappy-cut  coat  buttoned  tight.  He's  some 
different  from  what  he  was  when  sister  first 
discovered  him.  And  we  had  quite  a  gay  din 
ner  together. 

First  off  mother  was  for  campin'  right  down 
there  indefinitely,  where  she  could  see  her  dar- 
lin'  boy  every  day;  but  between  Wilfred  and 
me  we  persuaded  her  different.  I  expect  the 
hotel  quarters  had  something  to  do  with  it,  too. 
Anyway,  after  Wilfred  had  promised  to  try 
for  a  couple  of  days  off  soon,  for  a  visit  home, 
she  consents  to  start  back  in  the  mornin'. 

"What  I  dread  most,  Wilfred,"  says  she, 
"is  leaving  you  at  the  mercy  of  that  horrid 
sergeant."  / 

"Oh,  I'll  get  along  with  him  somehow,"  says 
Wilfred.  "I'm  goin'  to  try,  anyway." 

And  right  there,  as  I  understand  it,  Wilfred 
Stanton  Bliss  started  to  be  a  man  and  a  sol 
dier.  He  had  a  long  way  to  go,  though,  it 
seemed  to  me. 

So  here  the  other  day,  only  a  couple  of  weeks 
since  we  made  our  trip,  I'm  some  surprised  to 
see  who  it  is  givin'  me  the  zippy  salute  on  the 


192         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

station  platform  out  home.  Yes,  it's  Wilfred. 
And  say,  he's  got  his  shoulders  squared,  he's 
carryin'  his  chin  up,  and  he's  wearin'  his  uni 
form  like  it  grew  on  him. 

"Well,  well!"  says  I.  "Got  your  furlough, 
eh?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  he.  "Seventy-two  hours. 
Had  a  whale  of  a  time,  too.  You  can't  guess 
who  I  brought  home  with  me,  I'll  bet." 

I  couldn't. 

"Our  top  sergeant — Quigley,"  says  he. 
"Say,  he's  all  right.  He's  had  us  transferred 
to  the  best  barracks  in  camp.  Guess  we  de 
serve  it,  too,  for  we  're  on  the  way  to  bein '  the 
crackerjack  section  of  them  all.  You  ought  to 
see  us  drill.  Some  class!  And  it's  all  due  to 
Quigley.  Do  you  know  what  he  thinks!  That 
we're  slated  among  the  next  lot  to  go  over. 
How  about  that,  sir?  Won't  that  be  great?" 

4  *  Huh ! ' '  says  I.  l '  How  long  ago  was  it  you 
signed  up,  Wilfred?" 

"Just  six  weeks,  sir,"  says  he. 

"Whiffo!"  says  I,  gawpin'  at  him.  "If  we 
had  about  a  hundred  thousand  Quigleys!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP 

"BUT  listen,  Vee,"  says  I.  "If  Hoover 
can't  pnll  it  off,  with  all  the  backin'  he's  got, 
what's  the  use  of  a  few  of  you  women  mixin' 
in?" 

"At  least  we  can  try,"  says  Vee.  "The 
prices  this  Belcher  person  is  charging  are 
something  outrageous.  Eggs  ninety  cents!" 

"We  should  worry,"  says  I.  "Ain't  we 
got  nearly  a  hundred  hens  on  the  job?" 

"But  others  haven't,"  says  Vee.  "Those 
people  in  that  row  of  little  cottages  down  by 
the  station.  The  Walters,  for  instance.  He 
can't  get  more  than  twenty-five  or  thirty  dol 
lars  a  week,  can  he?" 

"There's  so  many  cases  you  can't  figure 
out,"  says  I.  "Maybe  he  scrubs  along  on  small 
steaks  or  fried  chicken." 

"It's  no  joking  matter,"  protests  Vee.  "Of 
course  there  are  plenty  of  people  worse  off 
then  the  Walters.  That  Mrs.  Burke,  whose  two 
boys  are  in  the  Sixty-ninth.  She  must  do  her 

193 


194          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

marketing  at  Belcher's,  too.  Think  of  her 
having  to  pay  those  awful  prices!" 

"I  would,"  says  I,  "if  workin'  up  a  case  of 
glooms  was  any  use;  but  I  can't  see " 

"We  can  see  enough,"  breaks  in  Vee.  "The 
new  Belcher  limousine,  the  additions  to  their 
hideous  big  house.  All  made,  too,  out  of  food 
profiteering  right  here.  It's  got  to  stop,  that's 
all." 

Which  is  where  I  should  have  shouted 
"Kamerad"  and  come  runnin'  out  with  my 
hands  up,  but  I  tried  to  show  her  that  Belcher 
was  only  playin'  the  game  like  everyone  else 
was  playin'  it. 

"He  ain't  springin'  anything  new,"  says  I. 
"He's  just  followin'  the  mob.  They're  all 
doin'  it,  from  the  Steel  Trust  down  to  the 
push-cart  men.  And  when  you  come  to  inter- 
ferin'  with  business — well,  that's  serious." 

"Humph!"  says  Vee.  "When  it  comes  to 
taking  advantage  of  poor  people  and  depriv 
ing  them  of  enough  to  eat,  I  call  it  plain  pi 
racy.  And  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
self,  Torchy,  standing  up  for  such  things." 

So  you  see  I  was  about  as  convincin'  as  a 
jazz  band  tryin'  to  imitate  the  Metropolitan 
orchestra  doin'  the  overture  to  "Lucia."  If  I 
hadn't  finally  had  sense  enough  to  switch  the 


VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP        195 

subject  a  little,  there  might  have  been  a  poutin' 
scene  and  maybe  a  double  case  of  sulks.  But 
when  I  got  to  askin'  where  she'd  collected  all 
this  grouch  against  our  local  meat  and  pro 
vision  octopus,  she  cheers  up  again. 

Seems  she'd  been  to  a  Bed  Cross  meetin' 
that  afternoon,  where  a  lot  of  the  ladies  was 
swappin'  tales  of  woe  about  their  kitchen  ex 
pense  accounts.  Some  of  'em  had  been  keep- 
in'  track  of  prices  in  the  city  markets  and  was 
able  to  shoot  the  deadly  parallel  at  Belcher.. 
Anyway,  they  ditched  the  sweater-knittin '  and 
bandage-rollin'  for  the  time  bein',  and  pro 
ceeded  to  organize  the  Woman's  Economic 
League  on  the  spot. 

''Sounds  impressive,"  says  I.  "And  what 
then?  Did  you  try  Belcher  for  treason,  find 
him  guilty,  and  sentence  him  to  be  shot  at  sun 
rise?" 

Vee  proves  that  she's  good-natured  again 
by  runnin'  her  tongue  out  at  me. 

"We  did  not,  Smarty,"  says  she.  "But  we 
passed  a  resolution  condemning  such  extortion 
severely. ' ' 

"How  rough  of  you!"  says  I.  "Any thing- 
else?" 

"Yes,"  says  Vee.  "We  appointed  a  com 
mittee  to  tell  him  he'd  better  stop." 


196         THE  HOUSE  OP  TORCHY 

"Fine!"  says  I.  "I  expect  he'll  have  every 
thing  marked  down  about  forty  per  cent,  by 
to-morrow  night." 

Somehow,  it  didn't  work  out  just  that  way. 
Next  report  I  got  from  Vee  was  that  the  com 
mittee  had  interviewed  Belcher,  but  there  was 
nothing  doin'.  He'd  been  awfully  nice  to  'em, 
even  if  he  had  talked  through  his  cigar  part 
of  the  time. 

Belcher  says  he  feels  just  as  bad  as  they 
about  havin'  to  soak  on  such  stiff  prices.  But 
how  can  he  help  it?  The  cold-storage  people 
are  boostin'  their  schedules  every  day.  They 
ain't  to  blame,  either.  They're  bein'  held  up 
by  the  farmers  out  West  who  are  havin'  their 
hair  cut  too  often.  Besides,  all  the  hens  in  the 
country  have  quit  layin'  and  joined  the  I.  W. 
W.,  and  every  kind  of  meat  is  scarce  on  ac 
count  of  Pershing's  men  developin'  such  big 
appetites.  He's  sorry,  but  he's  doin'  his  best, 
considerin'  the  war  and  everything.  If  peo 
ple  would  only  get  the  habit  of  usin'  corn  meal 
for  their  pie  crusts,  everything  would  be  lovely 
once  more. 

"An  alibi  on  every  count,"  says  I.  "I  ex 
pect  the  committee  apologized." 

"Very  nearly  that,"  says  Vee.    "The  sillies! 


VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP       197 

I  just  wish  I'd  been  there.  I  don't  believe 
half  of  what  he  said  is  true." 

"That's  one  thing,"  says  I,  "but  provin* 
it  on  him  would  be  another.  And  there's 
where  Belcher's  got  you." 

Course,  I  like  to  watch  Vee  in  action,  for  she 
sure  is  a  humdinger  when  she  gets  started, 
As  a  rule,  too,  I  don't  believe  in  tryin'  to- 
block  her  off  in  any  of  her  little  enterprises. 

But  here  was  once  where  it  seemed  to  me  she 
was  up  against  a  hopeless  proposition.  So  I 
goes  on  to  point  out,  sort  of  gentle  and  sooth- 
in',  how  war  prices  couldn't  be  helped,  any 
more'n  you  could  stop  the  tide  from  comin'  in. 

Oh,  I'm  some  smooth  suggester,  I  am,  when 
you  get  into  fireside  diplomacy.  Anyway,  the 
price  of  eggs  wasn't  mentioned  again  that  eve- 
nin'.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Vee  ain't  troubled 
much  with  marketm'  details,  for  Madame  Bat- 
tou,  wife  of  the  little  old  Frenchman  who  does 
the  cheffing  for  us  so  artistic,  attends  to  lay- 
in'  in  the  supplies.  And,  believe  me,  when  she 
sails  forth  with  her  market  basket  you  can  be 
sure  she's  goin'  to  get  sixteen  ounces  to  the 
pound  and  the  rock  bottom  price  on  every 
thing.  No  'phone  orders  for  her.  I  don't  be 
lieve  Vee  knew  what  the  inside  of  Belcher's 
store  looks  like.  I'm  sure  I  didn't. 


198         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

So  I  thought  the  big  drive  on  the  roast  beef 
and  canned  goods  sector  had  been  called  off. 
About  that  time,  too,  I  got  another  inspection 
detail  handed  me, — and  I  didn't  see  my  happy 
home  until  another  week-end. 

I  lands  back  on  Broadway  at  9  A.M.  Havin' 
reported  at  the  Corrugated  general  offices  and 
found  Old  Hickory  out  of  town,  I  declares  a 
special  holiday  and  beats  it  out  to  the  part  of 
Long  Island  I'm  beginnin'  to  know  best. 
Struck  me  Professor  Battou  held  his  face  kind 
of  funny  when  he  saw  me  blow  in ;  and  as  I 
asks  for  Vee,  him  and  the  madam  swaps 
glances.  He  say  she's  out. 

"Oh,"  says  I.  "Mornin'  call  up  at  the 
Ellinses',  eh?  I'll  stroll  up  that  way,  myself, 
then." 

Leon  hesitates  a  minute,  like  he  was  chokin' 
over  something,  and  then  remarks:  "But  no, 
M'sieur.  Madame,  I  think,  is  in  the  village." 

"Why,"  says  I,  "I  just  came  from  the  sta 
tion.  I  didn't  see  the  car  around.  How  long 
has  she  been  gone?" 

Another  exchange  of  looks,  and  then  Battou 
answers : 

"She  goes  at  seven." 

"Whaddye  mean  goes?"  says  I.  "It  ain't 
a  habit  of  hers,  is  it?" 


VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP       199 

Leon  nods. 

"All  this  week,"  says  he.  "She  goes  to  the 
meat  and  grocery  establishment,  I  under 
stand." 

"Belcher's?"  says  I.  "But  what— what's 
the  idea?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  best  if  M'sieur  asked 
Madame,"  says  he. 

"That's  right,  too,"  says  I. 

You  can  guess  I  was  some  puzzled.  Was 
Vee  doin'  the  spy  act  on  Belcher,  watchin' 
him  open  the  store  and  spendin'  the  forenoon 
concealed  in  a  crockery  crate  or  something! 
No,  that  didn't  sound  reasonable.  But  what 
the —  Meanwhile  I  was  leggin'  it  down 
towards  the  village. 

It's  a  busy  place,  Belcher's,  specially  on 
Saturday  forenoon.  Out  front  three  or  four 
delivery  trucks  was  bein'  loaded  up,  and  inside 
a  lot  of  clerks  was  jumpin'  round.  Among 
the  customers  was  two  Jap  butlers,  three  or 
four  Swedish  maids,  and  some  of  the  women 
from  the  village.  But  no  Vee  anywhere  in 
sight. 

Loomin'  prominent  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
active  tradin'  is  Belcher  himself,  a  thick- 
necked,  ruddy-cheeked  party,  with  bristly  black 
hair  cut  shoe-brush  style  and  growing  down. 


200         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

to  a  point  in  front.  His  big,  bulgy  eyes  are 
cold  and  fishy,  but  they  seem  to  take  in  every 
thing  that's  goin'  on.  I  hadn't  been  standin' 
around  more'n  half  a  minute  before  he  snaps 
his  finger,  and  a  clerk  comes  hustlin'  over  to 
ask  what  I'll  have. 

"Box  of  ginger-snaps,"  says  I  offhand; 
and  a  minute  later  I'm  bein'  shunted 
towards  a  wire-cage  with  a  cash  slip  in 
my  hand. 

I'd  dug  up  a  quarter,  and  was  waitin'  for 
the  change  to  be  passed  out  through  the  little 
window,  when  I  hears  a  familiar  snicker. 
Then  I  glances  in  to  see  who's  presidin'  at 
the  cash  register.  And  say,  of  all  the  sudden 
jolts  I  ever  got!  It's  Vee. 

"Well,  for  the  love  of  soup !"  I  gasps. 

"Twelve  out — thirteen.  That's  right,  isn't 
it?  Thank  you  so  much,  sir,"  says  she,  her 
gray  eyes  twinklin'. 

"Quit  the  kiddin',"  says  I,  "and  sketch  out 
the  plot  of  the  piece." 

"Can't  now,"  says  Vee.  "So  run  along. 
Please!" 

"But  how  long  does  this  act  of  yours  last!" 
I  insists. 

"Until  about  noon,  I  think,"  says  she.  "It's 
such  fun.  You  can't  imagine." 


VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP       201 

1 ' What's  it  for,  though?"  says  I.  "Are  you 
pullin'  a  sleuth  stunt  on-^ 

"S-s-s-sh!"  warns  Vee.  "He's  coming. 
Pretend  to  be  getting  a  bill  changed  or  some 
thing." 

It's  while  I'm  fishin'  out  a  ten  that  this 
little  dialogue  at  the  meat  counter  begins  to 
get  conspicuous :  A  thin,  stoop-shouldered  fe 
male  with  gray  streaks  in  her  hair  is  puttin' 
up  a  howl  at  the  price  of  corned  beef.  She'd 
asked  for  the  cheapest  piece  they  had,  and  it 
had  been  weighed  for  her,  but  still  she  wasn't 
satisfied. 

"It  wasn't  as  high  last  Saturday,"  she  ob 
jects. 

"No,  ma'am,"  says  the  clerk.  "It's  gone 
up  since." 

"Worse  luck,"  says  she,  pokin'  the  piece 
with  her  finger.  "And  this  is  nearly  all  bone 
and  fat.  Now  couldn't  you " 

"I'll  ask  the  boss,  ma'am,"  says  the  clerk. 
"Here  he  is." 

Belcher  has  come  over  and  is  listenin',  glar- 
in'  hostile  at  the  woman. 

"It's  Mrs.  Burke,  the  one  whose  sons  are 
in  the  army,"  whispers  Vee. 

"Well?"  demands  Belcher. 


202          THE  HOUSE  OP  TORCHY 

"It's  so  much  to  pay  for  meat  like  that," 
says  Mrs.  Burke.  "If  you  could— 

"Take  it  or  leave  it,"  snaps  Belcher. 

"Sure  now,"  says  she,  "you  know  I  can't 
afford  to  give " 

"Then  get  out!"  orders  Belcher. 

At  which  Vee  swings  open  the  door  of  the 
cage,  brushes  past  me,  and  faces  him  with  her 
eyes  snappin'. 

"Pig!"  says  she  explosive. 

"Wha-a-a-at!"  gasps  Belcher,  gawpin*  at 
her. 

"I — I  beg  pardon,"  says  Vee.  "I  shouldn't 
have  said  that,  even  if  it  was  so." 

"You — you're  discharged,  you!"  roars  Bel 
cher. 

"Isn't  that  nice?"  says  Vee,  reachin'  for 
her  hat  and  coat.  "Then  I  can  go  home  with 
my  husband,  I  suppose.  And  if  I  have  earned 
any  of  that  princely  salary — five  dollars  a 
week,  it  was  to  be,  wasn't  it? — well,  you  may 
credit  it  to  my  account:  Mrs.  Richard  Tabor 
Ballard,  you  know.  Come,  Torchy." 

Say,  I  always  did  suspect  there  was  mighty 
few  things  Vee  was  afraid  of,  but  I  never 
thought  she  had  so  much  clear  grit  stowed 
away  in  her  system.  For  to  sail  past  Belcher 
the  way  he  looked  then  took  a  heap  of  nerve, 


VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP        203 

believe  me.  But  before  he  can  get  that  thick 
tongue  of  his  limbered  up  we're  outside,  with 
Vee  snuggled  up  mufflin'  the  giggles  against 
my  coat  sleeve. 

1  'Oh,  it's  been  such  a  lark,  Torchy!"  says 
she.  "I've  passed  as  Miss  Hemmingway  for 
six  days,  and  I  don't  believe  more  than  three 
or  four  persons  have  suspected.  Thank  good 
ness,  Belcher  wasn't  one  of  them.  For  I've 
learned — oh,  such  a  lot!" 

"Let's  start  at  the  beginning,"  says  I. 
"Why  did  you  do  it  at  all?" 

"Because  the  committee  was  so  ready  to 
believe  the  whoppers  he  told,"  says  Vee. 
"And  they  wanted  to  disband  the  League,  espe 
cially  that  Mrs.  Norton  Plummer,  whose  hus 
band  is  a  lawyer.  She  was  almost  disagree 
able  about  it.  Truly.  'But,  my  dear,'  she  said 
to  me,  'one  can't  act  merely  on  rumor  and 
prejudice.  If  we  had  a  few  facts  or  figures 
it  might  be  different.'  And  you  know  that 
sour  smile  of  hers.  Well!  That's  why  I  did 
it.  I  asked  them  to  give  me  ten  days.  And 
now " 

Vee  finishes  by  squeezin'  my  arm. 

"But  how'd  you  come  to  break  in  so 
prompt!"  I  asks.  "Did  you  mesmerize  Bel 
cher?" 


204          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"I  bought  up  his  cashier — paid  her  to  re 
port  that  she  was  ill,"  says  Vee.  "Then  I 
smoothed  back  my  hair,  put  on  this  old  black 
dress,  and  went  begging  for  the  job.  That's 
when  I  began  to  know  Mr.  Belcher.  He's  quite 
a  different  person  when  he  is  hiring  a  cashier 
from  the  one  you  see  talking  to  customers. 
Keally,  I've  never  been  looked  at  that  way 
before — as  if  I  were  some  sort  of  insect.  But 
when  he  found  I  would  work  cheap,  and 
could  get  Mrs.  Robert  Ellins  to  go  on 
my  bond  if  I  should  turn  out  a  thief,  he 
took  me  on. 

"Getting  up  so  early  was  a  bit  hard,  and 
eating  a  cold  luncheon  harder  still ;  but  worst 
of  all  was  having  to  hear  him  growl  and  snap 
at  the  clerks.  Oh,  he's  perfectly  horrid.  I 
don't  see  how  they  stand  it.  Of  course,  I  had 
my  share.  'Miss  Blockhead'  was  his  pet  name 
for  me." 

"Huh!"  says  I,  grittin'  my  teeth. 

"Meaning  that  you'd  like  to  tell  Belcher  a 
few  things  yourself?"  asks  Vee.  "Well,  you 
needn't.  I'd  no  right  to  be  there,  for  one 
thing.  And,  for  another,  this  is  my  own  par 
ticular  affair.  I  know  what  I  am  going  to  do 
to  Mr.  Belcher;  at  least,  what  I'm  going  to 
try  to  do.  Anyway,  I  shall  have  some  figures 


VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP        205 

to  put  before  our  committee  Monday.  Then 
we  shall  see." 

Yep,  she  had  the  goods  on  him.  I  helped 
her  straighten  out  the  evidence :  copies  of  com 
mission-house  bills  showin'  what  he  had  paid 
for  stuff,  and  duplicates  of  sales-slips  givin' 
the  retail  prices  he  got.  And  say,  all  he  was 
stickin'  on  was  from  thirty  to  sixty  per  cent, 
profit. 

He  didn't  always  wait  for  the  wholesaler  to 
start  the  boosting  either.  Vee  points  out  where 
he  has  jacked  up  the  price  three  times  on 
the  same  shipment — just  as  the  spell  took  him. 
He'd  be  readin'  away  in  his  MOT  gen  Blather 
skite,  and  all  of  a  sudden  he'd  jump  out  of  his 
chair.  I'm  no  expert  on  provision  prices,  but 
some  of  them  items  had  me  bug-eyed. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "it  looks  like  this  Belcher 
party  meant  to  discourage  eatin'  altogether. 
Couldn't  do  better  if  he  was  runnin'  a  dinin'- 
car." 

"It's  robbery,  that's  what  it  is,"  says  Vee. 
"And  when  you  think  that  his  chief  victims 
are  such  helpless  people  as  the  Burkes  and  the 
Walters — well,  it's  little  less  than  criminal." 

"It's  a  rough  deal,"  I  admits,  "but  one 
that's  bein'  pulled  in  the  best  circles.  War 
profits  are  what  everybody  seems  to  be  out 


206          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

after  these  days,  and  I  don't  see  how  you're 
going  to  stop  it." 

"I  mean  to  try  to  stop  Belcher,  anyway," 
says  Vee,  tossin'  her  chin  up. 

"You  ain't  got  much  show,"  says  I;  "but 
go  to  it." 

Just  how  much  fight  there  was  in  Vee, 
though,  I  didn't  have  any  idea  of  until  I  saw 
her  Monday  evenin'  after  another  meetin'  of 
the  League.  It  seems  she'd  met  this  Mrs. 
Norton  Plummer  on  her  own  ground  and  had 
smeared  her  all  over  the  map. 

"What  do  you  suppose  she  wanted  to  do!" 
demands  Vee.  "Pass  more  resolutions!  Well, 
I  told  her  just  what  I  thought  of  that.  As 
well  pin  a  'Please-keep-out'  notice  on  your 
door  to  scare  away  burglars  as  to  send  reso 
lutions  to  Belcher.  And  when  I  showed  her 
what  profits  he  was  making,  item  by  item,  she 
hadn't  another  word  to  say.  Then  I  proposed 
my  plan." 

"EM"  says  I.     "What's  it  like?" 

"We  are  going  to  start  a  store  of  our  own," 
says  Vee — just  like  that,  offhand  and  casual. 

"You  are?"  says  I.  "But — but  who's  goin' 
to  run  it?" 

"They  made  me  chairman  of  the  sub-com 
mittee,"  says  Vee.  "And  then  I  made  them 


VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP       207 

subscribe  to  a  campaign  fund.  Five  thou 
sand.  We  raised  it  in  as  many  minutes.  And 
now — well,  I  suppose  I'm  in  for  it." 

" Listens  that  way  to  me,"  says  I. 

"Then  I  may  as  well  begin,"  says  she. 

And  say,  there's  nothin'  draggy  about  Vee 
when  she  really  goes  over  the  top.  While 
I'm  dressin'  for  dinner  she  calls  up  a  real 
estate  dealer  and  leases  a  vacant  store  in  the 
other  end  of  the  block  from  Belcher's.  Be 
tween  the  roast  and  salad  she  uses  the  'phone 
some  more  and  drafts  half  a  dozen  young 
ladies  from  the  Country  Club  set  to  act  as 
relay  clerks.  Later  on  in  the  evenin'  she 
rounds  up  Major  Percy  Thomson,  who's  been 
invalided  home  from  the  Quartermaster's  De 
partment  on  account  of  a  game  knee,  and  gets 
him  to  serve  as  buyin'  agent  for  a  week  or  so. 
Her  next  move  is  to  charter  a  couple  of  three- 
ton  motor-trucks  to  haul  supplies  out  from 
town ;  and  when  I  went  to  sleep  she  was  still 
jottin'  things  down  on  a  pad  to  be  attended 
to  in  the  mornin'. 

For  two  or  three  days  nothin'  much  seemed 
to  happen.  The  windows  of  that  vacant  store 
was  whitened  mysterious,  carpenters  were 
hammerin'  away  inside,  and  now  and  then  a 
truck  backed  up  and  was  unloaded.  But  no 


208          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

word  was  given  out  as  to  what  was  goin' 
to  be  sprung.  Not  until  Friday  mornin'. 
Then  the  commuters  on  the  8.03  was  hit  bang 
in  the  eye  by  a  whalin'  big  red,  white,  and 
blue  sign  announcin'  that  the  W.  E.  L.  Supply 
Company  was  open  for  business. 

Course,  it  was  kind  of  crude  compared  to 
Belcher's.  No  fancy  counters  or  showcases  or 
window  displays  of  cracker-boxes.  And  the 
stock  was  limited  to  staples  that  could  be 
handled  easy.  But  the  price  bulletins  posted 
up  outside  was  what  made  some  of  them  gents 
who'd  been  doin'  the  fam'ly  marketin'  stop 
and  stare.  A  few  of  'em  turned  halfway 
to  the  station  and  dashed  back  to  leave  their 
orders.  Goin'  into  town  they  spread  the 
news  through  the  train.  The  story  of  that 
latest  bag  of  U-boats,  which  the  mornin'  papers 
all  carried  screamers  about,  was  almost  thrown 
into  the  discard.  If  I  hadn't  been  due  for 
a  ten  o'clock  committee  meetin'  at  the  Corru 
gated,  I'd  have  stayed  out  and  watched  the 
openin'.  Havin'  told  Old  Hickory  about  it, 
though,  I  was  on  hand  next  mornin'  with  a 
whole  day's  furlough. 

"It  ought  to  be  our  big  day,"  says  Vee. 

It  was.  For  one  thing,  everybody  was  stock- 
in'  up  for  over  Sunday,  and  with  the  backin' 


VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP        209 

of  the  League  the  Supply  Company  could 
count  on  about  fifty  good  customers  as  a 
starter.  Most  of  the  ladies  came  themselves, 
rollin'  up  in  limousines  or  tourin'  cars  and 
cartin'  home  their  own  stuff.  Also  the  cottage 
people,  who'd  got  wind  of  the  big  mark-down 
bargains,  begun  to  come  in  bunches,  every 
woman  with  a  basket. 

But  they  didn't  swamp  Vee.  She'd  already 
added  to  her  force  of  young  lady  clerks  a 
squad  of  hand-picked  Boy  Scouts,  and  it  was 
my  job  to  manage  the  youngsters. 

I'd  worked  out  the  system  the  night  before. 
Each  one  had  typed  price  lists  in  his  pocket, 
and  besides  that  I'd  put  'em  through  an  hour's 
drill  on  weights  and  measures  before  the  show 
started. 

I  don't  know  when  it  was  Belcher  begun  to 
get  wise  and  start  his  counter-attack;  but  the 
first  time  I  had  a  chance  to  slip  out  and  take 
a  squint  his  way,  I  saw  this  whackin'  big  sign 
in  front  of  his  place:  "Potatoes,  40  cents  per 
peck."  Which  I  promptly  reports  to  Vee. 

"Very  well,"  says  she;  "we'll  make  ours 
thirty-five. ' ' 

Inside  of  ten  minutes  we  had  a  bulletin  out 
twice  as  big  as  his. 

"Now  I  guess  he'll  be  good,"  says  I. 


210         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

But  he  had  a  scrap  or  two  left  in  him,  it 
seems.  Pretty  soon  he  cuts  the  price  to  thirty. 

"We'll  make  it  twenty-five,"  says  Vee. 

And  by  eleven  o'clock  Belcher  has  countered 
with  potatoes  at  twenty  cents. 

"Why,"  gasps  Vee,  "that's  far  less  than  they 
cost  at  wholesale.  But  we  can't  let  him  beat 
us.  Make  ours  twenty,  too." 

"Excuse  me,  ma'am,"  puts  in  one  of  the 
Scouts,  salutin',  "but  we've  run  out  of  pota 
toes." 

"Oh,  boy!  "  says  I.  "Where  do  we  go  from 
here?" 

Vee  hesitates  only  long  enough  to  draw  a 
deep  breath. 

"Torchy,"  says  she,  "I  have  it.  Form  your 
boys  into  a  basket  brigade,  and  buy  out  Bel 
cher  below  the  market." 

Talk  about  your  frenzied  finance!  Wasn't 
that  puttin'  it  over  on  him!  For  two  hours, 
there,  we  went  long  on  Belcher's  potatoes  at 
twenty,  until  his  supply  ran  out  too.  Then 
he  switched  to  sugar  and  butter.  Quotations 
went  off  as  fast  as  when  the  bottom  drops 
out  of  a  bull  market.  All  we  had  to  do  to 
hammer  down  the  prices  of  anything  in  the 
food  line,  whether  we  had  it  or  not,  was  to 
stick  out  a  cut-rate  sign — Belcher  was  sure  to 


VEE  GOES  OVEE  THE  TOP       211 

go  it  one  better;  and  when  Vee  got  it  far 
enough  below  cost,  she  started  her  buyin'  corps, 
workin'  in  customers,  clerks,  and  anybody  that 
was  handy.  And  by  night  if  every  fam'ly 
within  five  miles  hadn't  stocked  up  on  bar 
gain  provisions  it  was  their  own  fault;  for 
if  they  didn't  have  cash  of  their  own 
Vee  was  right  there  with  the  long-distance 
credit. 

"I'll  bet  you've  got  old  Belcher  frothin' 
through  his  ears,"  says  I. 

"I  hope  so,"  says  Vee. 

The  followin'  Monday,  though,  he  comes  back 
at  her  with  his  big  push.  He  had  the  whole 
front  of  his  store  plastered  with  below-cost 
bulletins. 

"Pooh!"  says  Vee.  "I  can  have  signs  like 
that  painted,  too." 

And  she  did.  It  didn't  bother  her  a  bit  if 
her  stock  ran  out.  She  kept  up  on  the  cut- 
rate  game,  and  when  people  asked  for  things 
she  didn't  have  she  just  sent  'em  to  Belcher's. 

Maybe  you  saw  what  some  of  the  papers 
printed.  Course,  they  joshed  the  ladies  more 
or  less,  but  also  they  played  up  a  peppery  in 
terview  with  Belcher  which  got  him  in  bad 
with  everybody.  Vee  wasn't  so  pleased  at  the 
publicity  stuff,  but  she  didn't  squeal. 


212         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

What  was  worryin'  me  some  was  how  soon 
the  grand  smash  was  comin'.  I  knew  that  the 
campaign  fund  had  been  whittled  into  consider 
able,  and  now  that  prices  had  been  slashed 
there  was  no  chance  for  profits. 

It  was  botherin'  Vee  some,  too,  for  she'd 
promised  not  to  assess  the  League  members 
again  unless  she  could  show  'em  where  they 
were  comin'  out.  By  the  middle  of  the 
week  things  looked  squally.  Belcher  had 
given  out  word  that  he  meant  to  bust  up 
this  fool  woman's  opposition,  if  it  took  his 
last  cent. 

Then,  here  the  other  night,  I  comes  home  to 
find  Vee  wearin'  a  satisfied  grin.  As  I  comes 
in  she  jumps  up  from  her  desk  and  waves  a 
check  at  me. 

1  'Look!"  says  she.  "Five  thousand!  I've 
got  it  back,  Torchy,  every  dollar." 

"Eh?"  says  I.  "You  ain't  sold  out  to  Bel 
cher?" 

"I  should  say  not,"  says  she.  "To  the 
Noonan  chain.  Mr.  Noonan  came  himself. 
He'd  read  about  our  fight  in  the  newspapers, 
and  said  he'd  be  glad  to  take  it  off  our  hands. 
He 's  been  wanting  to  establish  a  branch  in  this 
district.  Five  thousand  for  stock  and  good  will. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?" 


VEE  GOES  OVER  THE  TOP       213 

"I  ain't  thinkm',"  says  I.  "I'm  just  gasp- 
in'  for  breath.  Noonan,  eh?  Then  I  see  where 
Belcher  gets  off.  And  if  you  don't  mind  my 
whisperin'  in  your  ear,  Vee,  you're  some 
whizz. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XHI 

LATE   RETURNS   ON   RUPERT 

VEE  and  I  were  goin'  over  some  old  snap 
shots  the  other  night.  It 's  done  now  and  then, 
you  know.  Not  deliberate.  I'll  admit  that's 
a  pastime  you  wouldn't  get  all  worked  up 
over  plannin'  ahead  for.  Tuesday  mornin', 
say,  you  don't  remark  breathless:  "I'll  tell 
you :  Saturday  night  at  nine-thirty  let 's  get  out 
them  last  year's  prints  and  give  'em  the  com- 
p'ny  front." 

It  don't  happen  that  way — not  with  our 
sketch.  What  I  was  grapplin'  for  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  window-seat  locker  was  something 
different — maybe  a  marshmallow  fork,  or  a 
corn-popper,  or  a  catalogue  of  bath-room  fix 
tures.  Anyway,  it  was  something  we  thought 
we  wanted  a  lot,  when  I  digs  up  this  album 
of  views  that  Vee  took  durin'  that  treasure- 
huntin'  cruise  of  ours  last  winter  on  the  old 
Agnes,  with  Auntie  and  Old  Hickory  and  Cap 
tain  Rupert  Killam  and  the  rest  of  the  bunch. 
I  was  just  tossin'  the  book  one  side  when  a 

214 


LATE  RETURNS  ON  RUPERT  215 

picture  slips  out,  and  of  course  I  has  to  take 
a  squint.  Then  I  chuckles. 

"Look!"  says  I,  luggin'  it  over  to  where 
Vee  is  curled  up  on  the  davenport  in  front 
of  the  fireplace.  " Remember  that?" 

A  giggle  from  Vee. 

"  l  Auntie  enjoying  a  half -hour  eulogy  of  the 
dear  departed,  by  Mrs.  Mumford,'  should  be 
the  title,"  says  she.  "She'd  been  sound  asleep 
for  twenty  minutes." 

"Which  is  what  you  might  call  good  de 
fensive,"  says  I.  "But  who's  this  gazin'  over 
the  rail  beyond — J.  Dudley  Simms,  or  is  that  a 
ventilator?" 

"Let's  see,"  says  Vee,  reachin'  for  the 
readin'  glass.  "Why,  you  silly!  That's  Cap 
tain  Killam." 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "Reckless  Rupert,  the  great 
mind-play  hero." 

"I  wonder  what  has  become  of  him?"  puts 
in  Vee,  restin'  her  chin  on  the  knuckle  of  her 
forefinger  and  starin'  into  the  fire. 

"Him?"  says  I.  "Most  likely  he's  back  in 
St.  Petersburg,  Florida,  all  dolled  in  white  flan 
nels,  givin'  the  tin-can  tourists  a  treat.  That 
would  be  Rupert's  game." 

I  don't  know  as  you  remember;  but,  in  spite 
of  Killam 's  havin'  got  balled  up  on  the  loca- 


216         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

tion  of  this  pirate  island,  and  Vee  and  me  bav 
in*  to  find  it  for  him,  he  came  in  for  his  share 
of  the  loot.  Must  have  been  quite  a  nice  little 
pot  for  Eupert,  too — enough  to  keep  him  cos 
tumed  for  bis  mysterious  hero  act  for  a  long 
time,  providin'  he  don't  overdress  the  part. 

Weird  combination — Rupert:  about  60  per 
cent,  camouflage  and  the  rest  solemn  boob.  An 
ex-school-teacher  from  some  little  flag  sta 
tion  in  middle  Illinois,  who'd  drifted  down  to 
the  West  Coast,  and  got  to  be  a  captain  by 
ownin'  an  old  cruiser  that  he  took  fishin'  par 
ties  out  to  the  grouper  banks  on.  Them  was 
the  real  facts  in  the  life  story  of  Rupert. 

But  the  picture  he  threw  on  the  screen  of 
himself  must  have  been  something  else  again 
— seasoned  sailor,  hardy  adventurer,  daredevil 
explorer,  and  who  knows  what  else?  Catch 
him  in  one  of  his  silent,  starey  moods,  with 
them  buttermilk  blue  eyes  of  his  opened  wide 
and  vacant,  and  you  had  the  outline.  But 
that's  as  far  as  you'd  get.  I  always  thought 
Rupert  himself  was  a  little  vague  about  it, 
but  he  would  insist  on  takin'  himself  so  seri 
ous.  That's  why  we  never  got  along  well,  I 
expect.  To  me  Rupert  was  a  walkin'  joke, 
except  when  he  got  to  sleuthin'  around  Vee  and 
me  and  made  a  nuisance  of  himself. 


LATE  KETURNS  ON  KUPERT  217 

"How  completely  people  like  that  drop  out 
of  sight  sometimes,"  says  Vee,  shuttin'  up  the 
"  album. 

"Yes,"  says  I.  "Contrary  to  old  ladies  who 
meet  at  summer  resorts  and  in  department- 
stores,  it's  a  sizable  world  we  live  in.  Thanks 
be  for  that,  too." 

But  you  never  can  tell.  It  ain't  more'n  three 
days  later,  as  I'm  breezin  through  a  cross 
street  down  in  the  cloak-and-suit  and  publish- 
in'  house  district,  when  a  taxi  rolls  up  to  the 
curb  just  ahead,  and  out  piles  a  wide-shoul 
dered  gent  with  freckles  on  the  back  of  his 
neck.  Course,  I  don't  let  on  I  can  spot  any 
body  I've  ever  known  just  by  a  sectional 
glimpse  like  that.  But  this  was  no  common 
case  of  freckles.  This  was  a  splotchy,  spattery 
system  of  rust  marks,  like  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  the  enemy's  trenches  after  a  week  of  drum 
fire.  Besides,  there  was  the  pale  carroty 
hair. 

Even  then,  the  braid-bound  cutaway  and  the 
biscuit-colored  spats  had  me  buffaloed.  So  I 
slows  up  until  I  can  get  a  front  view  of  the 
party  who's  almost  tripped  himself  with  the 
horn-handled  walkin '-stick  and  is  havin'  a  few 
last  words  with  someone  in  the  cab.  Then  I 
sees  the  washed  out  blue  eyes,  and  I  know 


218         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

there  can't  be  any  mistake.  About  then,  too, 
he  turns  and  recognizes  me. 

"Well,  for  the  love  of  beans!"  says  I. 
"Kupert!" 

The  funny  part  of  it  is  that  I  gets  it  off  as 
cordial  as  if  I  was  discoverin'  an  old  trench 
mate.  You  know  how  you  will.  And,  while  I 
can't  say  Captain  Killam  registered  any  wild 
joy  in  his  greeting  still  he  seemed  pleased 
enough.  He  gives  me  a  real  hearty  shake. 

"And  here  is  someone  else  you  know,"  says 
he,  wavin'  to  the  cab:  "Mrs.  Mumford." 

Blamed  if  it  ain't  the  cooin'  widow.  She's 
right  there  with  the  old  familiar  purry  gush, 
too,  squeezin'  my  fingers  kittenish  and  askin' 
me  how  "dear,  sweet  Verona"  is.  I  was  just 
noticin'  that  she'd  ditched  the  half  mournin' 
for  some  real  zippy  raiment  when  she  leans 
back  so  as  to  exhibit  a  third  party  in  the  taxi 
— a  young  gent  with  one  of  these  dead-white 
faces  and  a  cute  little  black  mustache — reg'lar 
lounge-lizard  type. 

"Oh,  and  you  must  meet  my  dear  friend, 
Mr.  Vinton  Bartley,"  she  purrs.  "Vinton, 
this  is  the  Torchy  I've  spoken  about  so 
often." 

"Ah,  ya-a-as,"  drawls  Vinton,  blowin'  out  a 
whiff  of  scented  cigarette  smoke  lazy.  "Quite 


LATE  RETURNS  ON  RUPERT  219 

so.  But — er — hadn't  we  best  be  getting  on, 
Lorina?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  coos  Mrs.  Mumford.  "By-by, 
Captain.  Good-by,  Torchy." 

And  off  they  whirls,  leavin'  me  with  my 
mouth  open  and  Rupert  starin'  after  'em 
gloomy. 

"Lorina,  eh!"  says  I.    "How  touchin'!" 

Killam  only  grunts,  but  it  struck  me  he  has 
tinted  up  a  bit  under  the  eyes. 

"Say,  Rupert,"  I  goes  on,  "who's  your 
languid  friend  with  the  cream-of-cabbage  com 
plexion?" 

"Bartley?"  says  he.  "Oh,  he's  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Mumford;  a  drama-tist — so  he  says." 

Now,  I  might  have  let  it  ride  at  that  and 
gone  along  about  my  own  affairs,  which  ain't 
so  pressin'  just  then.  Yes,  I  might.  But  I 
don't.  Maybe  it  was  hornin'  in  where  there 
was  no  welcome  sign  on  the  mat,  and  then 
again  perhaps  it  was  only  a  natural  folksy 
feelin'  for  an  old  friend  I  hadn't  seen  for  a 
long  time.  Anyway,  I'm  prompted  sudden  to 
take  Rupert  by  the  arm  and  insist  that  he  must 
come  and  have  lunch  with  me. 

"Why — er — thanks,"  says  the  Captain;  "but 
I  have  a  little  business  to  attend  to  in  here." 
And  he  nods  to  an  office  buildin'. 


220         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"That'll  be  all  right,  too,"  says  I.  "I'll 
wait." 

"Will  you?"  says  Rupert,  beamin'.  "I  shall 
be  pleased." 

So  in  less'n  half  an  hour  I  have  Rupert 
planted  cozy  at  a  corner  table  with  a  mixed 
grill  in  front  of  him,  and  I'm  givin'  him  the 
cue  for  openin'  any  confidential  chat  he  may 
have  on  hand.  He's  a  good  deal  of  a  clam, 
though,  Rupert.  And  suspicious!  He  must 
have  been  born  lookin'  over  his  shoulder.  But 
in  my  own  crude  way  I  can  sometimes  josh 
'em  along. 

"Excuse  me  for  mentionin'  it,  Rupert,"  says 
I,  "but  there's  lots  of  class  to  you  these  days." 

"Eh?"  says  he.    "You  mean " 

"The  whole  effect,"  says  I,  "from  the  gait 
ers  to  the  new-model  lid.  Just  like  you'd 
strolled  out  from  some  Fifth  Avenue  club  and 
was  goin'  to  'phone  your  brokers  to  buy  an 
other  block  of  Bethlehem  at  the  market.  Hon 
est!" 

He  pinks  up  and  shakes  his  head,  but  I  can 
see  I've  got  the  range. 

"And  here  Vee  and  I  had  it  doped  out,"  I 
goes  on,  "how  you'd  be  down  on  the  West 
Coast  by  this  time,  investin'  your  pile  in 
orange  groves  and  corner  lots." 


LATE  RETURNS  ON  RUPERT  221 

4 'No,"  says  Rupert;  "I've  been  here  all 
the  while.  You  see,  I — I've  grown  rather  fond 
of  New  York." 

"You  needn't  apologize,"  says  I.  "There's 
a  few  million  others  with  the  same  weakness, 
not  countin'  the  o^es  that  sleep  in  New  Jersey 
but  always  register  from  here.  Gone  into  some 
kind  of  business,  have  you?" 

Rupert  does  some  fancy  side-steppin'  about 
then;  but  all  of  a  sudden  he  changes  his  mind, 
and,  after  glancin'  around  to  see  that  no  one 
has  an  ear  out,  he  starts  his  confession. 

"The  fact  is,"  says  he,  "I've  been  doing  a 
little  literary  work." 

"Writin'  ads,"  says  I,  "or  solicitm'  maga 
zine  subscriptions'?" 

"I  am  getting  out  a  book  of  poems,"  says 
Rupert,  dignified. 

"Wh-a-a-at?  "  I  gasps.  "Not — not  reg'lar 
limerick  stuff?" 

I  can  see  now  that  was  a  bad  break.  But 
Rupert  was  patient  with  me.  He  explains 
that  these  are  all  poems  about  sailors  and 
ships  and  so  on;  real  salt,  tarry  stuff.  Also, 
he  points  out  how  it's  built  the  new  style  way, 
with  no  foolish  rhymes  at  the  end,  and  with 
long  lines  or  short,  just  as  they  happen  to 
come.  To  make  it  clear,  he  digs  up  a  roll 


222          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

of  galley  proofs  he's  just  collected  from  the 
publishers.  And  say,  he  had  the  goods.  There 
it  was,  yards  of  it,  all  printed  neat  in  big  fat 
type.  "Sea  Songs"  is  what  he  calls  'em,  and 
each  one  has  a  separate  tag  of  its  own,  such 
as  "Kittywakes,"  "Close  Hauled,"  and 
"Scuppers  Under." 

"Looks  like  the  real  stuff,"  says  I.  "Let's 
hear  how  it  listens.  Ah,  come  on!  Some  of 
that  last  one,  about  scuppers,  now." 

With  a  little  more  urgin',  Rupert  reads  it  to 
me.  I  should  call  him  a  good  reader,  too. 
Anyway,  he  can  untie  one  of  them  deep,  boom- 
in'  voices,  and  with  that  long,  serious  face  of 
his  helpin'  out  the  general  effect — well,  it's 
kind  of  impressive.  He  spiels  off  two  or  three 
stickfuls  and  then  stops. 

"Which  way  was  you  readin'  that,  back 
wards  or  forwards!"  says  I. 

Rupert  begins  to  stiffen  up,  and  I  hurries 
on  with  the  apology.  "My  mistake,"  says  I. 
1 1 1  thought  maybe  you  might  have  got  mixed  at 
the  start.  No  offense.  But  say,  Cap'n,  what's 
the  big  idea?  What  does  it  all  mean?" 

In  some  ways  Rupert  is  good-natured.  He 
was  then.  He  explains  how  in  this  brand  of 
verse  you  don't  try  to  tell  a  story  or  anything 
like  that.  "I  am  merely  giving  my  impres- 


sions,"  says  lie.  "That  is  all.  Interpreting 
my  own  feelings,  as  it  were." 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "Then  there's  no  goin'  be 
hind  the  returns.  Who's  to  say  you  don't  feel 
that  way?  I  get  you  now.  But  that  ain't  the 
kind  of  stuff  you  can  wish  onto  the  magazines, 
is  it?" 

Which  shows  just  how  far  behind  the  bass- 
drum  I  am.  Rupert  tells  me  the  different 
places  where  he's  unloaded  his  pieces,  most 
of  'em  for  real  money.  Also,  I  pumps  out  of 
him  how  he  came  to  get  into  the  game.  Seems 
he'd  been  roomin'  down  in  old  Greenwich  Vil 
lage;  just  happened  to  drift  in  among  them 
long-haired  men  and  short-haired  girls.  It 
turns  out  that  the  book  was  a  little  enter 
prise  that  was  being  backed  by  Mrs.  Mumford. 
Yes,  it's  that  kind  of  a  book — so  much  down 
in  advance  to  the  Grafter  Press.  You  know, 
Mrs.  Mumford  always  did  fall  for  Eupert,  and 
after  she's  read  one  of  his  sea  spasms  in  a 
magazine  she  don't  lose  any  time  huntin'  him 
out  and  renewin'  their  cruise  acquaintance. 
A  real  poet!  Say,  I  can  just  see  her  playin' 
that  up  among  her  friends.  And  when  she 
finds  he's  mixin'  in  with  all  those  dear,  delight 
ful  Bohemians,  she  insists  that  Eupert  tow 
her  along  too. 


224         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

From  then  on  it  was  a  common  thing  for  her 
and  Rupert  to  go  browsin'  around  among  them 
garlic  and  red-ink  joints,  defyin'  ptomaines 
and  learnin'  to  braid  spaghetti  on  a  fork. 
That  was  her  idea  of  life.  She  hires  an  apart 
ment  right  off  Washington  Square  and  moves 
in  from  Montclair  for  the  winter.  She  begun 
to  have  what  she  called  her  " salon  evenings," 
when  she  collected  any  kind  of  near-celebrity 
she  could  get. 

Mr.  Vinton  Bartley  was  generally  one  of 
the  favored  guests.  I  didn't  need  any  second 
sight,  either,  to  suspect  that  Vinton  was  sort 
of  crowdin*  in  on  this  little  romance  of  Ru 
pert's.  And  by  eggin'  Rupert  along  judicious 
I  got  the  whole  tale. 

Seems  it  had  been  one  of  Mrs.  Mumford's 
ambitions  to  spring  Rupert  on  an  unsuspectin' 
public.  Her  idea  is  to  have  Rupert  called  on, 
some  night  at  the  Purple  Pup,  to  step  up  to  the 
head  of  the  long  table  and  give  one  of  his  sea 
songs.  She'd  picked  Vinton  to  do  the  callin'. 
And  Vinton  had  balked. 

"But  say,'*  says  I,  "is  this  Vinton  gent  the 
only  one  of  her  friends  that's  got  a  voice? 
Why  not  pick  another  announcer?" 

"I'm   sure   I   don't   know,"    says    Rupert. 


LATE  RETURNS  ON  RUPERT  225 

"She — she  hasn't  mentioned  the  subject  re 
cently.  ' ' 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "Too  busy  listenin'  to  the 
voice  of  the  viper,  eh?" 

Rupert  nods  and  stares  sad  into  his  empty 
demi-tasse.  And,  say,  when  Rupert  gets  that 
way  he's  an  appealin'  cuss. 

"See  here,  Rupert,"  says  I;  "if  you  got  a 
call  of  that  kind,  would  you  come  to  the  front 
and  make  a  noise  like  a  real  poet?" 

"Why,"  says  he,  "I  suppose  I  ought  to.  It 
would  help  the  sale  of  the  book,  and  per 
haps " 

"One  alibi  is  enough,"  I  breaks  in.  "Now, 
another  thing:  How'd  you  like  to  have  me 
stage-manage  this  debut  of  yours!" 

"Oh,  would  you?"  says  he,  beamin'. 

"Providin'  you'll  follow  directions,"  says  I. 

"Why,  certainly,"  says  Rupert.  "Any  sug 
gestions  that  you  may  make " 

"Then  we'll  begin  right  now,"  says  I. 
"You  are  to  ditch  that  flossy  floor-walker 
outfit  of  yours  from  this  on." 

"You  mean,"  says  Rupert,  "that  I  am  not 
to  wear  these  clothes?" 

"Just  that,"  says  I.  "When  you  get  to 
givin'  mornin'  readin's  at  the  Plaza  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Red  Cross,  you  can  dig  'em  out 


226         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

again;  but  for  the  Purple  Pup  you  got  to  be 
costumed  different.  Who  ever  heard  of  a 
goulash  poet  in  a  braid-bound  cutaway  and 
spats?  Say,  it's  a  wonder  they  let  you  live 
south  of  the  Arch.'* 

"But — but  what  ought  I  to  wear?"  asks 
Eupert. 

"Foolish  question!"  says  I.  "Who  are  you, 
anyway?  Answer:  the  Sailor  Poet.  There 
you  are!  Sea  captain's  togs  for  you — double- 
breasted  blue  coat,  baggy-kneed  blue  trousers, 
and  a  yachtin'  cap." 

"Very  well,"  says  Eupert.  "But  about  my 
being  asked  to  read.  Just  how ' 

"Leave  it  to  me,  Eupert,"  says  I.  "Leave 
everything  to  me." 

Which  was  a  lot  simpler  than  tellin'  him  I 
didn't  know. 

You  should  have  seen  Vee's  face  when  I  tells 
her  about  Eupert 's  new  line. 

"Captain  Killam  a  poet!"  says  she.  "Oh, 
really  now,  Torchy!" 

"Uh-huh!"  says  I.  "He's  done  enough  for 
a  book.  Eead  me  some  of  it,  too." 

"But— but  what  is  it  like?"  asks  Vee. 
"How  does  it  sound?" 

"Why,"  says  I,  "it  sounds  batty  to  me— 
like  a  record  made  by  a  sailor  who  was  simple 


LATE  RETURNS  ON  RUPERT  227 

in  the  head  and  talked  a  lot  in  his  sleep. 
Course,  I'm  no  judge.  What's  the  difference, 
though?  Rupert  wants  to  spout  it  in  public.'* 

1  'But  the  people  in  the  restaurant,"  pro 
tests  Vee.  ''Suppose  they  should  laugh,  or 
do  something  worse?" 

"That's  where  Rupert  is  takin'  a  chance," 
says  I.  "Personally,  I  think  he'll  be  lucky  if 
they  don't  throw  plates  at  him.  But  we  ain't 
underwritin'  any  accident  policy;  we're  just 
bookin'  him  for  a  part  he  claims  he  can  play. 
Are  you  on?" 

Vee  gets  that  eye  twinkle  of  hers  workin'. 
' '  I  think  it  will  be  perfectly  lovely. ' ' 

I  got  to  admit,  too,  that  she's  quite  a  help. 

"We  must  be  sure  Mrs.  Mumford  and  that 
Bartley  person  are  both  there,"  says  she. 
"And  we  ought  to  have  as  many  of  Captain 
Killam's  friends  as  possible.  I'll  tell  you. 
Let's  give  a  dinner-party." 

"Must  we?"  says  I.  "You  know  we  ain't 
introducin'  any  London  success.  This  is  Ru 
pert's  first  stab,  remember." 

We  set  the  date  for  the  day  the  book  was 
to  be  out,  which  gives  Rupert  an  excuse  for 
celebratin'.  He'd  invited  Mrs.  Mumford  and 
Vinton  to  be  his  guests,  and  they'd  promised 
to  be  on  hand.  As  for  us,  we'd  rounded  up 


228          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert  Ellins  and  J.  Dudley 
Simms. 

Well,  everybody  showed  up.  And  as  it  hap 
pens,  it's  one  of  the  big  nights  at  the  Purple 
Pup.  The  long  center  table  is  surrounded  by 
a  gay  bunch  of  assorted  artists  who  are  bein' 
financed  by  an  out-of-town  buyer  who  seems  to 
be  openin'  Chianti  reckless.  We  were  over  in 
one  corner,  as  far  away  from  the  ukulele  tor 
turers  as  we  could  get,  while  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room  is  Rupert  with  his  two.  I 
thought  he  looked  kind  of  pallid,  but  it  might 
have  been  only  on  account  of  the  cigarette 
smoke. 

"Is  it  time  yet,  Torchyf"  asks  Mr.  Robert, 
when  we  gets  through  to  the  striped  ice  cream 
and  chicory  essence. 

"Let's  hold  off,"  says  I,  "and  see  if  some 
one  else  don't  pull  a  curtain-raiser." 

Sure  enough,  they  did.  A  bald-headed,  red- 
faced  old  boy  with  a  Liberty  Bond  button  in 
his  coat-lapel  insists  on  everybody's  drinkin' 
to  our  boys  at  the  front.  Followin'  that,  some 
one  leads  a  slim,  big-eyed  young  female  to  the 
piano  and  announces  that  she  will  do  a  couple 
of  Serbian  folk-songs.  Maybe  she  did.  I  hope 
the  Serbs  forgive  her. 

"If  they  can  take  that  without  squirmin'," 


LATE  RETURNS  ON  RUPERT  229 


says  I,  "I  guess  they  can  stand  for  Rupert. 
Go  on,  Mr.  Robert.  Shoot." 

Course,  he's  no  spellbinder,  but  he  can  say 
what  he  wants  to  in  a  few  words  and  make 
himself  heard.  And  then,  bein'  in  naval  uni 
form  helped. 

"I  think  we  have  with  us  to-night,"  says 
he,  "  Captain  Rupert  Killam,  the  sailor  poet.  I 
should  like,  if  it  pleases  the  company,  to  ask 
Captain  Killam  to  read  for  us  some  of  his 
popular  verses.  Does  anyone  second  the  mo 
tion  I" 

"Killam!  Killam!"  roars  out  the  sporty 
wine-opener. 

Others  took  up  the  chorus,  and  in  Ihe  midst 
of  it  I  dashes  over  to  drag  Rupert  from  his 
chair  if  necessary. 

But  I  wasn't  needed.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  beat  me  to  it.  Before  I  could  get  half 
way  to  him,  he  is  standin'  at  the  end  of  the 
long  table,  his  eyes  dropped  modest,  and  a 
brand-new  volume  of  "Sea  Songs"  held  con 
spicuous  over  his  chest. 

"This  is  indeed  an  unexpected  honor,"  says 
Rupert,  lyin'  fluent.  "I  am  a  plain  sailor- 
man,  as  you  know,  but  if  you  insist " 

And,  before  they  could  hedge,  he  has  squared 
his  shoulders,  thrown  his  head  well  back,  and 


230         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

has  cut  loose  with  that  boomin'  voice  of  his. 
Does  he  put  it  over?  Say,  honest,  I  finds  my 
self  listenin'  with  my  mouth  open,  just  as 
though  I  understood  every  word.  And  the 
first  thing  I  know  he's  carryin'  the  house  with 
him.  Even  some  of  the  Hungarian  waiters 
stopped  to  see  what  it's  all  about. 

Tides! 

Little,  rushing,  hurrying  tides 

Along  the   sloping   deck. 

And  the  bobstay  smashing  the  big  blue  deep, 

While  under  my  hand 

The  kicking  tiller  groans 

Its  oaken  soul  out  in  a  gray  despair. 

That's  part  of  it  I  copied  down  afterward. 
Yet  that  crowd  just  lapped  it  up. 

''Wow!"  Brava!  Brava!"  "What's  the 
matter  with  Killam?"  they  yells.  "More!" 

Rupert  was  flushin'  clear  up  the  back  of  his 
neck  now.  Also  he  was  fumblin'  with  the 
book,  hesitatin'  what  to  give  'em  next,  when 
I  pushes  in  and  begins  pumpin'  his  hand. 

"Shall— shall  I "  he  starts  to  ask. 

"No,  you  boob,"  I  whispers.  "Quit  while 
the  quittin's  good.  You  got  'em  buffaloed, 
all  right.  Let  it  ride." 

And  I  fairly  shoves  him  over  to  his  table, 


LATE  RETURNS  ON  RUPERT  231 

where  Sister  Mumford  has  already  split  out  a 
new  pair  of  gloves  and  is  beamin'  joyous,  while 
Vinton  is  sittin'  there  with  his  chin  on  his 
necktie,  lookin'  like  someone  had  beaned  him 
with  a  bung-starter. 

But  we  wasn't  wise  just  how  strong  Ru 
pert  had  scored  until  we  saw  the  half  page 
Whitey  Weeks  had  gotten  out  of  it  for  the 
Sunday  paper.  "New  Poet  Captures  Green 
wich  Village"  is  the  top  headline,  and  there's 
a  three-column  cut  showin'  Rupert  spoutin' 
his  ' '  Sea  Songs ' '  through  the  cigarette  smoke. 
Also,  I  gather  from  a  casual  remark  Rupert 
let  drop  yesterday  that  the  prospects  of  him 
and  Mrs.  Mumford  enterin'  the  mixed  doubles 
class  soon  are  good.  And,  with  her  ownin'  a 
big  retail  coal  business  over  in  Jersey,  I  ex 
pect  Rupert  can  go  on  writin'  his  pomes  as 
free  as  he  likes. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FOESYTHE    AT    THE    FINISH 

I  EXPECT  I  wouldn't  have  noticed  For sy the 
particular  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Mrs.  Robert. 
It  takes  all  kinds,  you  know,  to  make  up  a 
week-end  house-party  bunch ;  and  in  these  days, 
when  specimens  of  the  razor-usin'  sex  are  so 
scarce — well,  that's  when  half  portions  like  this 
T.  Forsythe  Hurd  get  by  as  full  orders. 

Besides,  Mrs.  Robert  had  meant  well.  Her 
idea  was  to  make  the  Captain's  48-hour  shore 
leave  as  gay  and  lively  as  possible.  She'd 
had  a  hard  time  roundin'  up  any  of  his  friends, 
too.  Hence  Forsythe.  One  of  these  slim,  fine- 
haired,  well  manicured  parlor  Pomeranians, 
Forsythe  is — the  kind  who  raves  over  the  sand 
wiches  and  whispers  perfectly  killin'  things 
to  the  ladies  as  he  flits  about  at  afternoon  teas. 

We  were  up  at  the  Ellinses',  Vee  and  me, 
fillin'  out  at  Saturday  luncheon,  when  Mr. 
Robert  drifts  in,  about  an  hour  behind  sched 
ule.  You  know,  he's  commandin'  one  of  these 
coast  patrol  boats.  Some  of  'em  are  con- 

232 


FOESYTHE  AT  THE  FINISH      233 

verted  steam  yachts,  some  are  sea-goin'  tugs, 
and  then  again  some  are  just  old  menhaden 
fish-boats  painted  gray  with  a  few  three-inch 
guns  stuck  around  on  'em  casual.  And  this 
last  is  the  sort  of  craft  Mr.  Robert  had  had 
wished  on  him. 

Seems  there 'd  been  some  weather  off  the 
Hook  for  the  last  few  days,  and,  with  a  fresh 
U-boat  scare  on,  him  and  his  reformed  glue 
barge  had  been  havin'  anything  but  a  merry 
time.  I  don't  know  how  the  old  fish-boat  stood 
it,  but  Mr.  Robert  showed  that  he'd  been  on 
more  or  less  active  service.  He  had  a  three 
days'  growth  of  stubble  on  his  face,  his  navy 
uniform  was  wrinkled  and  brine-stained,  and 
the  knuckles  on  one  hand  were  all  barked  up. 

"Why,  Robert!"  says  young  Mrs.  Ellins,  as 
she  wriggles  out  of  the  clinch  and  gives  him 
the  once-over.  "You're  a  sight." 

"Sorry,  my  dear,"  says  Mr.  Robert;  "but 
the  beauty  parlor  on  the  Narcissus  wasn't 
working  when  I  left.  But  if  you  can  give  me 
half  an  hour  to " 

He  got  it.  And  when  he  shows  up  again  in 
dry  togs  and  with  his  face  mowed  he's  almost 
fit  to  mingle  with  the  guests.  It  was  about 
then  that  T.  Forsythe  was  pullin'  his  star  act 
at  the  salad  bowl.  Course,  when  you  have 


234         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

only  ordinary  people  around,  you  let  the 
kitchen  help  do  such  things.  But  when  For- 
sythe  is  present  he's  asked  to  mix  the  salad 
dressin'. 

So  there  is  For sy the,  wearin'  a  jade-green 
tie  to  match  the  color  of  the  salad  bowl,  sur 
rounded  by  cruets  and  pepper  grinders  and 
paprika  bottles,  and  manipulatin '  his  own 
special  olivewood  spoon  and  fork  as  dainty  and 
graceful  as  if  he  was  conductin'  an  orchestra. 

1  'Oh,  I  say,  Jevons,"  says  he,  signalin'  the 
Ellinses'  butler,  "have  someone  conduct  a 
clove  of  garlic  to  the  back  veranda,  slice  it, 
and  gently  rub  it  on  a  crust  of  fresh  bread. 
Then  bring  me  the  bread.  And  do  you  mind 
very  much,  Mrs.  Ellins,  if  I  have  those  Papa 
Gontier  roses  removed?  They  clash  with  an 
otherwise  perfect  color  scheme,  and  you've  no 
idea  how  sensitive  I  am  to  such  jarring  notes. 
Besides,  their  perfume  is  so  beastly  obtrusive. 
At  times  I've  been  made  quite  ill  by  them. 
Really." 

"Take  them  away,  Jevons,"  says  Mr.  Rob 
ert,  smotherin'  a  sarcastic  smile. 

"Huh!"  grumbles  Mr.  Robert.  "What  a 
rotter  you  are,  Forsythe.  If  I  could  only  get 
you  aboard  the  Narcissus  for  a  ten-day  cruise ! 
I'd  introduce  you  to  perfumes,  the  sort  you 


FORSYTHE  AT  THE  FINISH      235 

could  lean  up  against.  You  know,  when  a  boat 
has  carried  mature  fish  for " 

"Please,  Bob!"  protests  Forsythe.  "We 
admit  you're  a  hero,  and  that  you've  been 
saving  the  country,  but  don't  let's  have  the 
disgusting  details ;  at  least,  not  when  the  salad 
dressing  is  at  its  most  critical  stage." 

Havin'  said  which,  Forsythe  proceeds  to 
finish  what  was  for  him  a  hard  day's  work. 

Discussin'  his  likes  and  dislikes  was  For 
sythe 's  strong  hold,  and,  if  you  could  believe 
him,  he  had  more  finicky  notions  than  a  sana 
torium  full  of  nervous  wrecks.  He  positively 
couldn't  bear  the  sight  of  this,  the  touch  of 
that,  and  the  sound  of  the  other  thing.  The 
rustle  of  a  newspaper  made  him  so  fidgety 
he  could  hardly  sit  still.  The  smell  of  boiled 
cabbage  made  him  faint.  Someone  had  sent 
him  a  plaid  necktie  for  Christmas.  He  had 
ordered  his  man  to  pick  it  up  with  the  fire- 
tongs  and  throw  it  in  the  ash-can.  Things  like 
that. 

All  through  luncheon  we  listened  while  For 
sythe  described  the  awful  agonies  he'd  gone 
through.  We  had  to  listen.  You  can  guess 
what  a  joy  it  was.  And,  all  the  time,  I 
could  watch  Mr.  Robert  gettin'  sorer  and 
sorer. 


236         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Entertainin'  party,  eh?"  I  remarks  on  the 
side,  as  we  escapes  from  the  dmin'-room. 

"Forsythe,"  says  Mr.  Robert,  "is  one  of 
those  persons  you're  always  wanting  to  kick 
and  never  do.  I  could  generally  avoid  him  at 
the  club,  but  here " 

Mr.  Robert  shrugs  his  shoulders.  Then  he 
adds: 

"I  say,  Torchy,  you  have  clever  ideas  now 
and  then." 

"Who,  me!"  says  I.  "Someone's  been  kid- 
din'  you." 

"Perhaps,"  says  he;  "but  if  anything  should 
occur  to  you  that  might  help  toward  putting 
Forsythe  in  a  position  where  real  work  and 
genuine  discomfort  couldn't  be  dodged — well,  I 
should  be  deeply  grateful." 

"What  a  cruel  thought!"  says  I.  "Still,  if 
a  miracle  like  that  could  be  pulled,  it  would  be 
entertainin'  to  watch.  Eh?" 

"Especially  if  it  had  to  do  with  handling 
cold,  slippery  things,"  chuckles  Mr.  Robert, 
"like  iced  eels  or  pickles." 

Then  we  both  grins.  I  was  tryin'  to  pic 
ture  Forsythe  servin'  a  sentence  as  helper  in 
a  fish  market  or  assistant  stirrer  in  a  soap  fac- 
t'ry.  Not  that  anything  like  that  could  hap 
pen  through  me.  Who  was  I  to  interfere 


FORSYTHE  AT  THE  FINISH       237 

with  a  brilliant  drawin'-room  performer  like 
him?  Honest,  with  Forsythe  scintillatin' 
around,  I  felt  like  a  Bolsheviki  of  the  third 
class.  And  yet,  the  longer  I  watched  him,  the 
more  I  mulled  over  that  hint  Mr.  Robert  had 
thrown  out. 

I  was  still  wonderin'  if  I  was  all  hollow 
above  the  eyes,  when  our  placid  afternoon 
gatherin'  is  busted  complete  by  a  big  cream- 
colored  limousine  rollin'  through  the  porte- 
cochere  and  a  new  arrival  breezin'  in.  From 
the  way  Jevons  swells  his  chest  out  as  he 
helps  her  shed  the  mink-lined  motor  coat,  I 
guessed  she  must  be  somebody  important. 

"Why,  it's  Miss  Gorman!"  whispers  Vee. 

"Not  the  Miss  Gorman — Miss  Jane?"  I  says. 

Vee  nods,  and  I  stretches  my  neck  out  an 
other  kink.  Who  wouldn't?  Not  just  because 
she's  a  society  head-liner,  or  the  richest  old 
maid  in  the  country,  but  because  she's  such 
a  wonder  at  gettin'  things  done.  You  know, 
I  expect — Red  Cross  work,  suffrage  campaign- 
in',  Polish  relief.  Say,  I'll  bet  if  she  could  be 
turned  loose  in  Mexico  or  Russia  for  a  couple 
of  months,  she'd  have  things  runnin'  as  smooth 
as  a  directors'  meetin'  of  the  Standard  Oil. 

Look  at  the  things  she's  put  through,  since 
the  war  started,  just  by  crashin'  right  in  and 


238         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

stayin'  on  the  job.  They  say  she  keeps  four 
secretaries  with  their  suitcases  packed,  ready 
to  jump  into  their  travelin'  clothes  and  slide 
down  the  pole  when  she  pushes  the  buzzer 
button. 

And  now  she's  makin'  straight  for  Mr. 
Robert. 

"What  luck!"  says  she.  "I  wasn't  at  all 
sure  of  finding  you.  How  much  leave  have 
you?  Only  until  Monday  morning?  Oh,  you 
overworked  naval  officers !  But  you  must  find 
some  men  for  me,  Robert ;  two,  at  least.  I  need 
them  at  once." 

"Might  I  ask,  Miss  Jane,"  says  he,  "if  any 
particular  qualifications  are ' 

"What  I  would  like,"  breaks  in  Miss  Gor 
man,  "would  be  two  active,  intelligent  young 
men  with  some  initiative  and  executive  ability. 
You  see,  I  am  giving  a  going  away  dinner  for 
some  soldiers  of  the  Rainbow  Division  who 
are  about  to  be  sent  to  the  transports.  It's 
an  official  secret,  of  course.  No  one  is  sup 
posed  to  know  that  they  are  going  to  sail  soon, 
but  everyone  does  know.  None  of  their  friends 
or  relatives  are  to  be  allowed  to  be  there  to 
wish  them  God-speed  or  anything  like  that,  and 
they  need  cheering  up  just  now.  So  I  arrange 
one  of  these  dinners  when  I  can.  My  plans 


FORSYTES  AT  THE  FINISH      239 

for  this  one,  however,  have  been  terribly 
rushed. ' ' 

"I  see,"  says  Mr.  Robert.  "And  it's  per 
fectly  bully  of  you,  Miss  Jane.  Splendid!  I 
suppose  there'll  be  a  hundred  or  so." 

"Six  eighty,"  says  she,  never  battin'  an 
eye.  "We  are  not  including  the  officers — only 
privates.  And  we  don't  want  one  of  them  to 
lift  a  finger  for  it.  They've  had  enough  fatigue 
duty.  This  time  they're  to  be  guests — honored 
guests.  I  have  permission  from  the  Brigadier 
in  command.  We  are  to  have  one  of  the  mess 
halls  for  a  whole  day.  The  chef  and  waiters 
have  been  engaged,  too.  And  an  orchestra. 
But  there'll  be  so  many  to  manage — the  tell 
ing  of  who  to  go  where,  and  seeing  that  the 
entertainers  don't  get  lost,  and  that  the  little 
dinner  favors  are  put  around,  and  all  those 
details.  So  I  must  have  help." 

I  could  see  Mr.  Robert  rollin'  his  eyes 
around  for  me,  so  I  steps  up.  Just  from  hear- 
in'  her  talk  a  couple  of  minutes  I'd  caught  the 
fever.  That's  a  way  she  has,  I  understand. 
So  the  next  thing  I  knew  I'd  been  patted  on 
the  shoulder  and  taken  on  as  a  volunteer. 

"Precisely  the  sort  of  assistant  I  was  hop 
ing  for,"  says  Miss  Gorman.  "I  can  tell  by 
his  hair.  I  know  just  what  I  shall  ask  him  to 


240         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

do.  But  there  '11  be  so  much  more ;  decorating 
the  tables,  and " 

Here  I  nudges  Mr.  Robert.  "How  about 
Forsythe!"  I  suggests. 

1 '  Eh  ? "  says  he.  '  '  Why— why-  By  Jove, 
though!  Why  not?  Oh,  I  say,  Forsythe! 
Just  a  moment." 

Maybe  the  same  thought  struck  him  as  had 
come  to  me,  which  is  that  helpin'  Miss  Jane 
give  a  blowout  to  near  seven  hundred  soldiers 
wouldn't  be  any  rest-cure  stunt.  She's  rated 
at  about  ninety  horse-power  herself,  when  she's 
speeded  up,  and  anybody  that  happens  to  be  on 
her  staff  has  got  to  keep  movin'  in  high. 
They'd  have  to  be  ready  to  tackle  anything 
that  turned  up,  too. 

But,  to  hear  Mr.  Robert  explain  it  to  For 
sythe,  you'd  think  it  was  just  that  his  fame 
as  an  arranger  of  floral  center-pieces  had 
spread  until  Miss  Gorman  has  decided  nobody 
else  would  do. 

"Although,  heaven  knows,  I  never  suspected 
you  could  be  really  useful,  Forsythe,"  says  Mr. 
Robert.  "But  if  Miss  Jane  thinks  you'd  be  a 
help " 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  Mr.  Hurd  would  be  the 
very  one,"  puts  in  Miss  Gorman. 

"At  last!"  says  Forsythe,  strikin'  a  pose. 


FORSYTHE  AT  THE  FINISH       241 

"My  virtues  are  about  to  be  discovered.  I 
shall  be  delighted  to  assist  you,  Miss  Gorman, 
in  any  way." 

"Tut,  tut,  Forsythe!"  says  Mr.  Robert. 
"Don't  be  too  reckless.  Miss  Jane  might  take 
you  at  your  word." 

"Go  on.  Slander  me,"  says  Forsythe.  "Say 
that,  when  enlisted  in  a  noble  cause,  I  am  a 
miserable  shirker." 

"Indeed,  I  shouldn't  believe  a  word  of  it, 
even  if  I  had  time  to  listen  to  him,"  declares 
Miss  Jane.  "And  I  must  be  at  the  camp  within 
an  hour.  I  shall  need  one  of  you  young  men 
now.  Let  me  see.  Suppose  I  take  this  one — 
Torchy,  isn't  it?  Get  your  coat.  I'll  not  prom 
ise  to  have  you  back  for  dinner,  but  I'll  try. 
Thank  you  so  much,  Robert." 

And  then  it  was  a  case  of  goin'  on  from 
there.  Whew!  I've  sort  of  had  the  notion 
now  and  then,  when  I've  been  operatin'  with 
Old  Hickory  Ellins  at  the  Corrugated  Trust 
on  busy  days,  that  I  was  some  rapid  private 
sec.  But  say,  havin'  followed  Miss  Jane  Gor 
man  through  them  dinner  preliminaries,  I  know 
better. 

While  that  French  chauffeur  of  hers  is  rollin' 
us  down  Long  Island  at  from  forty  to  fifty 
miles  per  hour,  she  has  her  note-book  out  and 


242         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

is  pumpin'  me  full  of  things  I'm  expected  to 
remember — what  train  the  chef's  gang  is  corn- 
in'  on,  how  the  supplies  are  to  be  carted  over, 
who  to  see  about  knockin'  up  a  stage  for  the 
cabaret  talent,  and  where  the  buntin'  has  been 
ordered.  I  borrows  a  pad  and  pencil,  and 
wishes  I  knew  shorthand. 

By  the  time  we  lands  at  the  camp,  though,  I 
have  a  fair  idea  of  the  job  she's  tackled;  and 
while  she's  havin'  an  interview  with  the  C.  0. 
I  starts  explorin'  the  scene  of  the  banquet. 
First  off  I  finds  that  the  mess-hall  seats  less 
than  five  hundred,  the  way  they  got  the  tables 
fixed;  that  there's  no  room  for  a  stage  without 
breakin'  through  one  end  and  tackin'  it  on;  and 
that  the  camp  cooks  will  have  the  range  ovens 
full  of  bread  and  the  tops  covered  with  oat 
meal  in  double  boilers  as  usual.  Outside  of 
that  and  a  few  other  things,  the  arrangements 
was  lovely. 

Miss  Jane  ain't  a  bit  disturbed  when  I  makes 
my  report. 

''There!"  says  she.  ''Didn't  I  say  you  were 
just  the  assistant  I  needed?  Now,  please  tell 
all  those  things  to  the  Brigadier.  He  will  know 
exactly  what  to  do.  Then  you'd  best  be  out 
here  early  Monday  morning  to  see  that  they're 
done  properly.  And  T  think,  Torchy,  I  shall 


make  you  my  general  manager  for  this  occa 
sion.  Yes,  I'll  do  it.  Everyone  will  report 
first  to  you,  and  you  will  tell  them  exactly 
where  to  go  and  what  to  do." 

"You — you  mean,"  says  I,  gaspin'  a  bit, 
"all  the  hired  help?" 

"And  the  volunteers  too,"  says  Miss  Jane. 
' '  Everyone. ' ' 

Maybe  I  grinned.  I  didn't  know  just  how  it 
was  goin'  to  work  out,  but  I  could  feel  some 
thing  comin'.  Forsythe  was  goin'  to  get  his. 
He  stood  to  get  it  good,  too.  Not  all  on  ac 
count  of  what  I  owed  Mr.  Robert  for  the 
friendly  turns  he'd  done  me.  Some  of  it  would 
be  on  my  own  hook,  to  pay  up  for  the  yawny 
half  hours  I'd  had  to  sit  through  listenin'  while 
Forsythe  discoursed  about  himself.  You  should 
have  seen  the  satisfied  look  on  Mr.  Robert's 
face  when  I  hinted  how  Forsythe  might  be  in 
line  for  new  sensations. 

"If  I  could  only  be  there  to  watch!"  says 
he.  "You  must  tell  me  all  about  it  after 
wards.  They'll  enjoy  hearing  of  it  at  the 
club." 

But,  at  that,  Forsythe  wasn't  the  one  to  walk 
right  into  trouble.  He's  a  shifty  party,  and 
he  ain't  been  duckin'  work  all  these  years 
without  gettin'  expert  at  it.  Accordin'  to 


244         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

schedule  he  was  to  show  up  at  the  camp  about 
nine- thirty  Monday  morning;  but  it's  nearer 
noon  when  he  rolls  up  in  his  car.  And  I  don't 
hesitate  a  bit  about  givin'  him  the  call. 

"You  know  it's  this  week,  not  next,"  says  I, 
"that  this  dinner  is  comin'  off.  And  there's 
four  bolts  of  buntin'  waitin'  to  be  hung  up." 

"Quite  so,"  says  For sy the.  "We  must  get 
to  work  right  away. ' ' 

I  had  to  chase  down  to  the  station  again 
then,  to  see  that  the  chef's  outfit  was  bein' 
loaded  on  the  trucks;  but  I  was  cheered  up  by 
the  thought  of  Forsythe  balanced  on  top  of  a 
tall  step-ladder  with  his  mouth  full  of  tacks 
and  his  collar  gettin'  wilty. 

It's  near  an  hour  before  I  gets  back,  though. 
Do  I  find  Forsythe  in  his  shirt-sleeves  climbin' 
around  on  the  rafters?  I  do  not.  He's  sittin' 
comfortable  in  a  camp-chair  on  a  fur  motor 
robe,  smokin'  a  cigarette  calm,  and  surrounded 
by  half  a  dozen  classy  young  ladies  that  he's 
rounded  up  by  'phone  from  the  nearest  coun 
try  club.  The  girls  and  three  or  four  chauf 
feurs  are  doin'  the  work,  while  Forsythe  is 
doin'  the  heavy  directin'. 

He'd  sketched  out  his  decoratin'  scheme  on 
the  back  of  an  envelop,  and  now  he  was  tellin' 
'em  how  to  carry  it  out.  The  worst  of  it  is, 


FORSYTHE  AT  THE  FINISH      245 

too,  that  he's  gettin'  some  stunnin'  effects  and 
is  bein'  congratulated  enthusiastic  by  the  girls. 

It's  the  same  way  with  fixin'  up  the  tables 
with  ferns  and  flowers.  For sy the  plans  it  out 
with  a  pencil,  and  his  crew  do  the  hustlin' 
around. 

Course,  I  had  to  let  it  ride.  Besides,  there 
was  a  dozen  other  things  for  me  to  look  after. 
But  I'm  good  at  a  waitin'  game.  I  kept  my 
eye  on  Forsythe,  to  see  that  he  didn't  slip 
away.  He  was  still  there  at  two-thirty,  bav 
in'  organized  a  picnic  luncheon  with  the  young 
ladies,  when  Miss  Jane  blew  in.  And  blamed 
if  she  don't  fall  for  Forsythe's  stuff,  too. 

"Why,  you've  done  wonders,  Mr.  Hurd," 
says  she.  "What  a  versatile  genius  you  are?" 

"Oh,  that!"  says  he,  wavin'  a  sandwich 
careless.  "But  it's  an  inspiration  to  be  doing 
anything  at  all  for  you,  Miss  Gorman." 

And  here  he  hasn't  so  much  as  shed  his 
overcoat. 

It  must  have  been  half  an  hour  later  when 
Sig.  Zaretti,  the  head  chef,  comes  huntin'  me 
out  with  a  desperate  look  in  his  eyes.  I  was 
consultin'  Miss  Jane  about  borrowin'  a  piano 
from  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  tent,  but  he  kicks  right  in. 

"Ah,  I  am  distract,"  says  he,  puffin'  out 
his  cheeks.  "Eet — eet  ees  too  mooch!" 


246          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Go  on,"  says  I.  "Shoot  the  tragedy. 
What's  too  much?" 

"That  Pedro  and  that  Salvatore,"  says  he. 
"They  have  become  lost,  the  worthless  ones. 
They  disappear  on  me.  And  in  three  hours  I 
am  to  serve,  in  this  crude  place,  a  dinner  of 
six  courses  to  seven  hundred  men.  They 
abandon  me  at  such  a  time,  with  so  much  to 
be  done." 

"Well,  that's  up  to  you,"  says  I.  "Can't 
some  of  your  crowd  double  in  brass?  What 
about  workin*  in  some  of  your  waiters?" 

"But  they  are  all  employed,"  says  Zaretti. 
"Besides,  the  union  does  not  permit.  If  you 
could  assist  me  with  two  men,  even  one.  I  im 
plore." 

"There  ain't  a  cook  in  sight,"  says  I. 
"Sorry,  but " 

"Eet  ees  not  for  cook,"  he  protests.  "No; 
only  to  help  make  the  peel  from  those  so  many 
potatoes.  One  who  could  make  the  peel. 
Please!" 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "Peelin'  potatoes?  Why, 
'most  anybody  could  help  out  at  that,  I  guess. 
I  would  myself  if " 

"No,"  breaks  in  Miss  Jane.  "You  cannot 
be  spared.  And  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  who 
could." 


FORSYTHE  AT  THE  FINISH       247 

"Unless,"  I  puts  in,  "Mr.  Hurd  is  all 
through  with  his  decoratin'." 

"Why,  to  be  sure,"  says  she.  "Just  tell 
him,  will  you?" 

"Suppose  I  send  him  over  to  you,  Miss  Gor 
man,"  says  I,  "while  I  hustle  along  that 
piano?" 

She  nods,  and  I  lose  no  time  trailin'  down 
Forsythe. 

"Emergency  call  for  you  from  Miss  Jane," 
says  I,  edgin'  in  among  his  admirers  and  tap- 
pin'  him  on  the  shoulder.  "She's  waitin'  over 
by  headquarters." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  says  Forsythe,  startin'  off 
brisk. 

"And  say,"  I  calls  after  him,  "I  hope  it 
won't  be  anything  that'll  make  you  faint." 

"Please  don't  worry  about  me,"  says  he. 

Well,  I  tried  not  to.  In  fact,  I  tried  so  hard 
that  some  folks  might  have  thought  I'd  heard 
good  news  from  home.  But  I'd  had  a  peek  or 
two  into  the  camp  kitchen  since  Zaretti's  food 
construction  squad  had  moved  in,  and,  believe 
me,  it  was  no  place  for  an  artistic  tempera 
ment,  subject  to  creeps  up  the  back.  There  was 
about  a  ton  of  cold-storage  turkeys  bein'  un 
packed,  bushels  of  onions  goin'  through  the 
shuckin'  process,  buckets  of  soup  stock  stand- 


248         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

in'  around,  and  half  a  dozen  murderous-lookin' 
assistant  chefs  was  sharpenin'  long  knives  and 
jabberin'  excited  in  four  languages. 

Oh,  yes;  Forsythe  was  goin'  to  need  all  the 
inspiration  he'd  collected,  if  he  lasted  through. 

I  kind  of  wanted  to  stick  around  and  cheer 
him  up  with  friendly  words  while  he  was  fishin' 
potatoes  out  of  the  cold  water  and  learnin'  to 
use  a  peelin '-knife,  but  my  job  wouldn't  let 
me.  After  I'd  seen  the  piano  landed  on  the 
new  stage,  there  were  chairs  to  be  placed  for 
the  orchestra,  and  then  other  things.  So  it  was 
some  little  time  before  I  got  around  to  the 
kitchen  wing  again,  pretendin'  to  be  lookin' 
for  Zaretti.  But  nowhere  in  that  steamin', 
hustlin',  garlic-smellin '  bunch  could  I  see  For 
sythe. 

"Hey,  chef!"  I  sings  out.  "Where's  that 
expert  potato-peeler  I  sent  you?" 

"Ah!"  says  he,  rubbin'  his  hands  enthusi 
astic.  "The  signor  with  the  yellow  gloves! 
In  the  tent  there  you  will  find  heem." 

So  I  steps  over  to  the  door  of  a  sort  of  can 
vas  annex  and  peers  in.  And  say,  it  was  a 
rude  shock.  Forsythe  is  there,  all  right.  He's 
snuggled  up  cozy  next  to  an  oil  heater,  holdin' 
a  watch  in  one  hand  and  a  cigarette  in  the 
other,  while  around  him  is  grouped  his  faith- 


FOKSYTHE  AT  THE  FINISH       249 

ful  fluff  body-guard,  each  with  a  pan  in  her 
lap  and  the  potato-peelm's  comin'  off  rapid. 
Forsythe?  Oh,  he  seems  to  be  speedin'  'em 
up  and  keepin'  tally. 

I'd  just  let  out  my  second  gasp  when  I  feels 
somebody  at  my  elbow,  and  glances  round  to 
find  it's  Miss  Jane. 

"Look!"  says  I,  indicatin'  Forsythe  and  his 
busy  bees. 

"What  a  picture!"  says  Miss  Jane. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "illustratin'  the  manly  art 
of  lettin'  the  women  do  it." 

Miss  Jane  laughs  easy. 

"It  has  been  that  way  for  ages,"  says  she. 
"Mr.  Hurd  is  only  running  true  to  type.  But 
see!  The  potatoes  are  nearly  all  peeled  and 
our  dinner  is  going  to  be  served  on  time. 
What  splendid  assistants  you've  both  been!" 

At  that,  though,  if  there 'd  been  a  medal  to 
be  passed  out,  I  guess  it  would  have  been 
pinned  on  Forsythe. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   HOUSE   OF   TOUCHY 

THIS  trip  it  was  a  matter  of  tanks.  No,  not 
the  ice-water  variety,  or  the  kind  that  absorbs 
high-balls.  Army  tanks — the  sort  that  wal 
lows  out  at  daybreak  and  gives  the  Hun  that 
chilly  feelin'  down  his  spine. 

Accordin'  to  my  credentials,  I  was  supposed 
to  be  inspectin'  'em  for  weak  spots  in  the 
armor  or  punk  work  on  the  gears.  And  I  can 
tell  you  now,  on  the  side,  that  it  was  90  per 
cent,  bluff.  What  the  Ordnance  Department 
really  wanted  to  know  was  whether  the  work 
was  bein'  speeded  up  proper,  how  many  men 
on  the  shifts,  and  was  the  steel  comin'  through 
from  the  rollin'  mills  all  right.  Get  me?  Sleuth 
stuff. 

I'd  been  knockin'  around  there  for  four 
days,  bein'  towed  about  by  the  reserve  major, 
who  had  a  face  on  him  like  a  stuffed  owl,  a 
nut  full  of  decimal  fractions,  and  a  rubber- 
stamp  mind.  Oh,  he  was  on  the  job,  all  right. 
So  was  everybody  else  in  sight.  I  could  see 

250 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY          251 

that  after  the  first  day.  In  fact,  I  coded  in  my 
O.  K.  the  second  noon  and  was  plannin'  to 
slip  back  home. 

But  when  I  hinted  as  much  to  the  Major 
he  nearly  threw  a  cat-fit.  Why,  he'd  arranged 
a  demonstration  at  10  A.M.  Thursday,  for  my 
special  benefit.  And  there  were  the  tests — 
horse-power,  gun-ranges,  resistance,  and  I 
don't  know  what  all;  technical  junk  that  I  sav 
vied  about  as  much  as  if  he'd  been  tryin'  to 
show  me  how  to  play  the  Chinese  alphabet  on 
a  piccolo. 

Course,  I  couldn't  tell  him  that,  nor  I 
didn't  want  to  break  his  heart  by  refusin'. 
So  I  agrees  to  stick  around  a  while  longer. 
But  say,  I  never  enjoyed  such  a  poor  time  do- 
in'  it.  For  there  was  just  one  spot  on  the  map 
where  I  was  anxious  to  be  for  the  next  few 
days.  That  was  at  home.  It  was  one  of  the 

times  when  I  ought  to  be  there  too,  for 

Well,  I'll  get  to  that  later. 

Besides,  this  fact'ry  joint  where  they  were 
buildin'  the  tanks  wasn't  any  allurin'  spot.  I 
can't  advertise  just  where  it  was,  either;  the 
government  wouldn't  like  it.  But  if  there's 
any  part  of  Connecticut  that's  less  interestin' 
to  loaf  around  in,  I  never  got  stranded  there. 
You  run  a  spur  track  out  into  the  bare  hills 


252          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

for  fifteen  miles  from  nowhere,  slap  up  a  row 
of  cement  barracks,  and  a  few  acres  of  ma 
chine  shops,  string  a  ten-foot  barbed-wire  fence 
around  the  plant,  drape  the  whole  outfit  in 
soft-coal  smoke,  and  you  ain't  got  any  Garden 
of  Eden  winter  resort.  Specially  when  it's  full 
of  low-brow  mechanics  who  speak  in  seven  dif 
ferent  lingos  and  subsist  mainly  on  cut  plug 
and  garlic. 

After  I'd  checked  up  all  the  dope  I'd  come 
for,  and  durin'  the  times  when  the  Major  was 
out  plannin'  more  inspection  stunts  for  me,  I 
was  left  to  drill  around  by  myself.  Hours 
and  hours.  And  all  there  was  to  read  in  the 
Major's  office  was  engineerin'  magazines  and 
the  hist'ry  of  Essex  County,  Mass.  Havin' 
been  fed  up  on  mechanics,  I  tackled  the  his 
t'ry.  One  chapter  had  a  corkin'  good  Indian 
scalpin'  story  in  it,  about  a  Mrs.  Hannah  Dus- 
tin;  and  say,  as  a  short-order  hair  remover 
she  was  a  lady  champ,  all  right.  But  the  rest 
of- the  book  wasn't  so  thrillin'. 

So  I  tried  chattin'  with  the  Major's  secre 
tary,  a  Lieutenant  Barnes.  The  Major  must 
have  picked  him  out  on  account  of  that  serious 
face  of  his.  First  off,  I  had  an  idea  Barnes 
was  sad  just  because  he  was  detailed  at  this 
soggy  place  instead  of  bein'  sent  to  France. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TOBCHY          253 

I  asks  him  sort  of  sympathizin'  how  long  he's 
been  here.  He  says  three  months. 

"In  this  hole?"  says  I.  "How  do  you  keep 
from  goin'  bug-house?" 

"I  don't  mind  it,"  says  he.  "I  find  the  work 
quite  interesting." 

"But  evenin's?"  I  suggests. 

"I  write  to  my  wife,"  says  he. 

I  wanted  to  ask  him  what  about,  but  I 
choked  it  back.  "Oh,  yes,"  says  I.  "Of 
course.  Any  youngsters  at  home?" 

"No,"  says  he  prompt.  "Life  is  compli 
cated  enough  without  children." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  I.  "They'd  sort 
of  help,  I  should  think." 

He  shakes  his  head  and  glares  gloomy  out 
of  the  window.  "I  cannot  agree  with  you," 
says  he.  "Perhaps  you  have  never  seriously 
considered  just  what  it  means  to  be  a  parent. ' ' 

"Maybe  not,"  says  I,  "but " 

"Few  seem  to  do  so,"  he  breaks  in.  "Just 
think:  one  begins  by  putting  two  lives  in 
jeopardy." 

"Let's  pass  over  that,"  I  says  hasty. 

He  sighs.  "If  we  only  could,"  says  he. 
"And  then—  Well,  there  you  are — sad 
dled  with  the  task  of  caring  for  another  human 
being,  of  keeping  him  in  good  health,  of  mold- 


254         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

ing  his  character,  of  planning  and  directing  his 
whole  career,  from  boyhood  on." 

"Some  are  girls,  though,"  I  suggests. 

He  shudders.  "So  much  the  worse,"  says 
he.  "Girl  babies  are  such  delicate  creatures; 
all  babies  are,  in  fact.  Do  you  know  the 
average  rate  of  infant  mortality  in  this  coun 
try!  Just  think  of  the  hundreds  of  thousands 
who  do  not  survive  the  teething  period.  Imag 
ine  the  anxieties,  the  sleepless  nights,  the  sad 
little  tragedies  which  come  to  so  many  homes. 
Then  the  epidemic  diseases — measles,  scarlet 
fever,  meningitis.  Let  them  survive  all  those, 
and  what  has  the  parent  to  face  but  the  battle 
with  other  plagues,  mental  and  moral  I  Think 
of  the  number  of  weak-minded  children  there 
are  in  the  world;  of  perverts,  criminally  in 
clined.  It  is  staggering.  But  if  you  escape 
all  that,  if  your  children  are  well  and  nor 
mal,  as  some  are,  then  you  must  consider 
this :  Suppose  anything  should  happen  to  either 
or  both  of  the  parents  f  What  of  the  little  boy 
or  girl?  You  have  seen  orphan  asylums,  I 
suppose.  Have  you  ever  stopped  to 

And  then,  just  as  he  had  me  feelin'  like  I 
ought  to  be  led  out  and  shot  at  sunrise,  the  old 
Major  comes  bustlin'  in  fussy.  I  could  have 
fallen  on  his  neck. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY          255 

"All  ready!"  says  he.  "Now  I'll  show  you 
a  fighting  machine,  young  man,  that  is  the  last 
word  in  mechanical  genius." 

"You  can  show  me  anything,  Major,"  says 
I,  "so  long  as  it  ain't  a  morgue  or  a  State's 
prison." 

And  he  sure  had  some  boiler-plate  bus  out 
there  champin'  at  the  bit.  It  looked  just  as 
frisky  as  the  Flatiron  Buildin',  squattin*  in 
the  middle  of  the  field,  this  young  Fort  Slo- 
cum  with  the  caterpillar  wheels  sunk  in  the 
mud. 

"Stuck,  ain't  she?"  I  asked  the  Major. 

"We  shall  see,"  says  he,  noddin'  to  one  of 
his  staff,  who  proceeds  to  do  a  semaphore  act 
with  his  arms. 

An  answerin'  snort  comes  from  inside  the 
thing,  a  purry  sort  of  rumble  that  grows  big 
ger  and  bigger,  and  next  I  knew,  it  starts  wal- 
lowin'  right  at  us.  It  keeps  comin'  and  com- 
in',  gettin'  up  speed  all  the  while,  and  if  there 
hadn't  been  a  four-foot  stone  wall  between 
us  I'd  been  lookin'  for  a  tall  tree.  I  thought 
it  would  turn  when  it  came  to  the  wall.  But 
it  don't.  It  gives  a  lurch,  like  a  cow  playin' 
leap-frog,  and  over  she  comes,  still  pointed 
our  way. 

"Hey,  Major!"  I  calls  out  above  the  roar. 


256         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Can  they  see  where  they're  goin'  in  there? 
Hadn't  we  better  give  'em  room?" 

"Don't  move,  please,"  says  he. 

"Just  as  you  say,"  says  I;  "only  I  ain't 
strong  for  bein'  rolled  into  pie-crust." 

"There's  no  danger,"  says  he.  "I  merely 
wish  you  to  see  how There !  Look ! ' ' 

And  say,  within  twenty  feet  of  us  the  blamed 
thing  rears  up  on  its  haunches,  its  ugly  nose 
high  as  a  house  above  us,  and,  while  I'm  still 
holdin*  my  breath,  it  pivots  on  its  tail  and 
lumbers  back,  leavin'  a  path  that  looks  like  it 
had  been  paved  with  Belgian  blocks. 

Course,  that's  only  part  of  the  performance. 
We  watched  it  wallow  into  deep  ditches  and 
out,  splash  through  a  brook,  and  mow  down 
trees  more'n  a  foot  thick.  And  all  the  time 
the  crew  were  pokin'  out  wicked-lookin'  guns, 
big  and  little,  that  swung  round  and  hunted  us 
out  like  so  many  murderous  eyes. 

"Cute  little  beast,  ain't  it?"  says  I.  "You 
got  it  trained  so  it'll  almost  do  a  waltz.  If  I 
was  to  pick  my  position,  though,  I  think  I'd 
rather  be  on  the  inside  lookin'  out." 

"Very  well,"  says  the  Major.  "You  shall 
have  a  ride  in  it." 

"Excuse  me,"  says  I.  "I  was  only  foolin'. 
Honest,  Major,  I  ain't  yearnin'." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY          257 

" Telegram  for  you,"  breaks  in  Barnes,  the 
secretary. 

"Oh!"  says  I,  a  bit  gaspy,  as  I  rips  open 
the  envelop. 

It's  the  one  I'd  been  expectin'.  All  it  says 
is:  "Come  at  once.  VEE."  But  I  knew  what 
that  meant. 

"Sorry,  Major,"  says  I,  "but  I'll  have  to 
pass  up  the  rest  of  the  show.  I — I'm  called 
back." 

"Ah!    To  headquarters?"  says  he. 

"No,"  says  I.     "Home." 

He  shakes  his  head  and  frowns.  "That  is 
a  word  which  no  officer  is  supposed  to  have 
in  his  vocabulary,"  says  he. 

"It's  in  mine,  all  right,"  says  I.  "But 
then,  I'm  not  much  of  an  army  officer,  anyway. 
I'm  mostly  a  camouflaged  private  sec.  Be 
sides,  this  ain't  any  ordinary  call.  It's  a  do 
mestic  S.  0.  S.  that  I've  been  sort  of  lookin' 
for." 

* '  I  understand, ' '  says  he.    ' '  The — the  first ! ' ' 

I  nods.  Then  I  asks:  "What's  the  quickest 
way  across  to  Long  Island?" 

"There  isn't  any  quick  way,"  says  he, 
"unless  you  have  wings.  You  can't  even  catch 
the  branch  line  local  that  connects  with  the 


258         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

New  York  express  now.  There'll  be  one  down 
at  8 :  36  to-morrow  morning,  though. ' ' 

"Wha-a-at!"  says  I,  gawpin'  at  him.  ''How 
about  gettin'  a  machine  and  shootin'  down  to 
the  junction?" 

"My  car  is  the  only  one  here,"  says  he, 
"and  that  is  out  of  commission  to-day — valves 
being  ground." 

"But  look,"  says  I;  "you  got  three  or  four 
of  those  motor-cycles  with  a  bath-tub  tacked 
on  the  side.  Couldn't  you  let  one  of  your  ser 
geants " 

"Strictly  against  orders,"  says  he,  "except 
for  military  purposes." 

"Ah,  stretch  it,  Major,"  I  goes  on.  "Have 
a  heart.  Just  think!  I  want  to  get  there  to 
night.  Got  to!" 

"Impossible,"  says  he. 

"But  listen "  I  keeps  on. 

Well,  it's  no  use  rehearsin'  the  swell  argu 
ments  I  put  up.  I  said  he  had  a  rubber-stamp 
mind,  didn't  I?  And  I  made  about  as  much 
headway  talkin'  to  him  as  I  would  if  I'd  been 
assaultin'  that  tank  with  a  tack-hammer.  He 
couldn't  see  any  difference  between  havin' 
charge  of  a  string  of  machine  shops  in  Con 
necticut  and  commandin'  a  regiment  in  the 
front-line  trenches.  Besides,  he  didn't  approve 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TOBCHY         259 

of  junior  officers  bein'  married.  Not  durin' 
war-time,  anyway. 

And  the  worst  of  it  was,  I  couldn't  tell  him 
just  the  particular  kind  of  ossified  old  pinhead 
I  thought  he  was.  All  I  could  do  was  grind 
my  teeth,  say  "Yes,  sir,"  and  salute  respect 
ful. 

Also  there  was  that  undertaker-faced  sec 
retary  standin'  by  with  his  ear  out.  The 
prospect  of  sittin'  around  watchin'  him  for 
the  rest  of  the  day  wasn't  fascinatin'.  No; 
I'd  had  about  all  of  Barnes  I  could  stand.  A 
few  more  of  his  cheerin'  observations,  and  I'd 
want  to  jam  his  head  into  his  typewriter  and 
then  tread  on  the  keys.  Nor  I  wasn't  goin' 
to  be  fed  on  any  more  cog-wheel  statistics  by 
the  Major,  either. 

All  I  could  keep  on  my  mind  then  was  this 
one  thing:  How  could  I  get  home?  Looked 
like  I  was  up  against  it,  too.  The  nearest 
town  was  twelve  miles  off,  and  the  main-line 
junction  was  some  thirty-odd  miles  beyond 
that.  Too  far  for  an  afternoon  hike.  But  I 
couldn't  just  sit  around  and  wait,  or  pace  up 
and  down  inside  the  barbed-wire  fence  like  an 
enemy  alien  that  had  been  pastured  out.  So  I 
wanders  through  the  gate  and  down  a  road. 
I  didn't  know  where  it  led,  or  care.  Maybe  I 


260          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

had  a  vague  idea  a  car  would  come  along. 
But  none  did. 

I  must  have  been  trampin'  near  an  hour, 
with  my  chin  down  and  my  fists  jammed  into 
my  overcoat  pockets,  when  I  catches  a  glimpse, 
out  of  the  tail  of  my  eye,  of  something  yellow 
dodgin'  behind  a  clump  of  cedars  at  one  side 
of  the  road.  First  off  I  thought  it  might  be 
a  cow,  as  there  was  a  farm-house  a  little  ways 
ahead.  Then  it  struck  me  no  cow  would  move 
as  quick  as  that,  or  have  such  a  bright  yellow 
hide.  So  I  turns  and  makes  straight  for  the 
cedars. 

It  was  a  thick,  bushy  clump.  I  climbed  the 
stone  wall  and  walked  all  the  way  round. 
Nothin'  in  sight.  Seemed  as  if  I  could  see 
branches  movin'  in  there,  though,  and  hear  a 
sound  like  heavy  breathin'.  Course,  it  might 
be  a  deer,  or  a  fox.  Then  I  remembered  I 
ha'd  half  a  bag  of  peanuts  somewhere  about 
me.  Maybe  I  could  toll  the  thing  out  with  'em. 
I  was  just  fishin'  in  my  pockets  when  from 
the  middle  of  the  cedars  comes  this  disgusted 
protest. 

"Oh,  I  say,  old  man,"  says  a  voice.  "No 
shooting,  please." 

And  with  that  out  steps  a  clean-cut,  cheerful- 
faced  young  gent  in  a  leather  coat,  goggled 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY         261 

helmet,  and  spiral  puttees.  No  wonder  I 
stood  starin'.  Not  that  I  hadn't  seen  plenty 
like  him  before,  but  I  didn't  know  the  woods 
was  so  full  of  'em. 

"You  were  out  looking  for  me,  I  suppose ?" 
he  goes  on. 

"Depends  on  who  you  are,"  says  I. 

"Oh,  we  might  as  well  come  down  to  cases, " 
says  he.  "I'm  the  enemy." 

"You  don't  look  it,"  says  I,  grinnin'. 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"Fact,  old  man,"  says  he.  "I'm  the  one 
you  were  sent  to  watch  for — Lieutenant  Don 
ald  Allen,  26th  Flying  Corps  Division,  Squad 
ron  B." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  says  I. 

"No  doubt,"  says  he.  "Have  a  cigarette?" 
We  lights  up  from  the  same  match.  "But 
say,"  he  adds,  "it  was  just  a  piece  of  tough 
luck,  your  catching  me  in  this  fix." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  so  sure,"  says  I. 

"Of  course,"  he  says,  "it  won't  go  with 
the  C.  0.  But  really,  now,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  when  your  observer  insists  that  he's  dy 
ing!  I  couldn't  tell.  Perhaps  he  was.  Eight 
in  the  middle  of  a  perfect  flight,  too,  the 
chump  I  Motor  working  sweet,  air  as  smooth  as 
silk,  and  no  cross  currents  to  speak  of.  But,, 


262         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

with  him  howling  about  this  awful  pain  in  his 
tummy,  what  else  could  I  do1?  Had  to  come 

down  and Well,  here  we  are.  I'm  behind 

the  lines,  I  suppose,  and  you'll  report  my  sur 
render." 

"Then  what?"  I  asks. 

"Oh,"  says  Allen,  "as  soon  as  I  persuade 
this  trolley-car  aviator,  Martin,  that  he  isn't 
dead,  I  shall  load  him  into  the  old  bus  and 
cart  him  back  to  Mineola." 

"Wha-a-t!"  says  I.  "You — you're  goin' 
back  to  Mineola — to-night?" 

"If  Martin  can  forget  his  tummy,"  says 
he.  "How  I'll  be  guyed!  Go  to  the  foot 
of  the  eligible  list  too,  and  probably  miss 
out  on  being  sent  over  with  my  division. 
Oh,  well!" 

I  was  beginning  to  dope  out  the  mystery. 
More'n  that,  I  had  my  fingers  on  the  tail 
feathers  of  a  hunch. 

"Why  not  leave  Martin  here?"  I  suggests. 
"Couldn't  you  show  up  in  time?" 

"It  wouldn't  count,"  says  the  Lieutenant. 
"You  must  have  an  observer  all  the  way." 

"How  about  me  subbin'  in?"  says  I. 

"You?"  says  he.  "Why,  you're  on  the  other 
side." 

"That's  where  you're  mixed,"  says  I.    "I'm 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TOBCHY         263 

on  the  wrong  side  of  Long  Island  Sound,  that's 
all." 

"Why,"   says   he,   "weren't   you  sent   out 

"No,"  I  breaks  in;  "I'm  no  spotter.  I'm 
on  special  detail  from  the  Ordnance  Depart 
ment.  And  a  mighty  punk  detail  at  that,  if 
you  ask  me.  The  party  who's  sleuthin'  for 
you,  I  expect,  is  the  one  I  saw  back  at  the 
plant,  moonin'  around  with  a  pair  of  field 
glasses  strapped  to  him.  You  ain't  captured 
yet;  not  by  me,  anyway." 

"Honest?"  says  he.   "Why,  then— then " 

"Uh-huh!"  says  I.  "And  if  you  can  make 
it  back  to  Mineola  with  a  perfectly  good  pas 
senger  in  the  extra  seat  you'll  qualify  for 
scout  work  and  most  likely  be  over  pluggin' 
Huns  within  a  month  or  so.  That  won't  tickle 
you  a  bit  more'n  it  will  me  to  get  to  Long 
Island  to-night,  for " 

Well,  then  I  tells  him  about  Vee,  and  every 
thing. 

"By  George!"  says  he.  "You're  all  right, 
Lieutenant — er ' ' 

"Ah,  between  friends,  Donald,"  says  I,  "it's 
Torchy." 

At  which  we  links  arms  chummy  and  goes 
marchin'  close  order  down  to  the  farm-house 


264         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

to  see  how  this  Martin  party  was  gettin'  on. 
We  finds  him  rolled  up  in  quilts  on  an  old 
sofa  that  the  folks  had  shoved  up  in  front  of 
the  stove — a  slim,  nervous-lookin'  young  gink 
with  sandy  hair  and  a  peaked  no&e. 

"Well,  how  about  you?"  asks  Allen. 

Martin  he  only  moans  and  reaches  for  a 
warm  flat-iron  that  he'd  been  holdin'  against 
his  stomach. 

' '  Still  dying,  eh  ?  "  says  Allen.  ' '  Why  didn  't 
you  report  sick  this  morning,  instead  of  let 
ting  them  send  you  up  with  me?" 

"I — I  was  all  right  then,"  whines  Martin. 
"It — it  must  have  been  the  altitude  got  me. 
I — I'd  never  been  that  high  before,  you 
know. ' ' 

"Bah!"  says  the  Lieutenant.  "Not  over 
thirty-five  hundred  at  any  time.  How  do  you 
expect  me  to  take  you  back — on  the  hundred- 
foot  level?  You'll  make  a  fine  observer,  you 
will!" 

"I've  had  enough  observing,"  says  Martin. 
"I — I'm  going  to  get  transferred  to  the 
mechanical  department. ' ' 

"Oh,  are  you?"  says  Allen.  "Then  you'll 
be  just  as  satisfied  to  make  the  trip  back  by 
rail." 

Martin  nods. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY          265 

"And  you  won't  be  needing  your  helmet 
and  things,  eh!"  goes  on  the  Lieutenant. 
"I'll  take  those  along,  then,"  and  he  winks  at 
me. 

All  of  a  sudden,  though,  the  sparkles  fade 
out  of  his  eyes.  "Jinxed  again!"  says  he. 
" There 'd  be  no  blessed  map  to  hand  in." 

"Eh?"  says  I.     "Map  of  what!" 

He  explains  jerky.  This  scoutin'  stunt  of 
his  was  to  locate  the  tank  works  and  get  close 
enough  for  an  observer  to  draw  a  plan  of  it — 
all  of  which  he'd  done,  only  by  then  Martin 
had  got  past  the  drawin'  stage. 

"So  it's  no  use  going  back  to-night." 

"Ain't  it?"  says  I.  "Say,  if  a  map  of  that 
smoky  hole  is  all  you  need,  I  guess  I  can  pro 
duce  that  easy  enough." 

"Can  you!"  he  asks. 

"Why  not?"  says  I.  "Ain't  I  been  cooped 
up  there  for  nearly  a  week?  I  can  put  in  a 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  Major  in  command;  one 
of  his  secretary,  too,  if  you  like.  Gimme  some 
paper. ' ' 

And  inside  of  five  minutes  I'd  sketched  out 
a  diagram  of  the  buildin's  and  the  whole  out 
fit.  Then  we  poked  Martin  up  long  enough  for 
him  to  sign  it. 

"Fine  work!"  says  Donald.     "That  earns 


266         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

you  a  hop,  all  right.  Now  buckle  yourself 
into  that  cloud  costume  and  I'll  show  you  how 
a  110-horse-power  crow  would  go  from  here  to 
the  middle  of  Long  Island  if  he  was  in  a 
hurry. ' ' 

"You  can't  make  it  any  too  speedy  for  me," 
says  I,  slippin'  into  the  sheepskin  jacket. 

"Ever  been  up  before?"  he  asks. 

"Only  once — in  a  hydro,"  says  I;  "but  I 
ain't  missed  any  chances." 

"That's  the  spirit!"  says  he.  "Come  along. 
The  old  bus  is  anchored  down  the  field  a 
ways." 

I  couldn't  hardly  believe  I  was  actually  goin' 
to  pull  it  off  until  he'd  got  the  motor  started 
and  we  went  skimmin'  along  the  ground.  But 
as  soon  as  we  shook  off  the  State  of  Connecti 
cut  and  began  climbin'  up  over  a  strip  of 
woods,  I  settles  back  in  the  little  cockpit,  but 
tons  the  wind-shield  over  my  mouth,  and  sighs 
contented. 

Allen  and  I  didn't  exchange  much  chat. 
You  don't  with  an  engine  of  that  size  roarin' 
a  few  feet  in  front  of  you  and  your  ears 
buttoned  down  by  three  or  four  layers  of 
wool  and  leather.  Once  he  points  out  ahead 
and  tries  to  shout  something,  I  don't  know 
what.  But  I  nods  and  waves  encouragin'. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY          267 

Later  lie  points  down  and  grins.  I  grins 
back. 

Next  thing  I  knew,  he's  shut  off  the  motor, 
and  I  gets  a  glimpse  of  the  whole  of  Long 
Island  behavin'  odd.  Seems  as  if  it's  swellin' 
and  widenin'  out,  like  one  of  these  freaky  toy 
balloons  you  blow  up.  It  didn't  seem  as  if 
we  was  divin'  down — more  like  the  map  was 
rushin'  up  to  meet  us.  Pretty  soon  I  could 
make  out  a  big  open  space  with  a  lot  of 
squatty  buildin's  at  one  end,  and  in  a  couple 
of  minutes  more  the  machine  was  rollin'  along 
on  its  wheels  and  we  taxied  graceful  up 
towards  the  hangars. 

It  was  just  gettin'  dusk  as  we  piles  out,  and 
the  first  few  yards  I  walked  I  felt  like  I  was 
dressed  in  a  divin'  suit  with  a  pair  of  lead 
boots  on  my  feet.  I  saw  Allen  salute  an  officer, 
hand  over  the  map,  and  heard  him  say  some 
thing  about  Observer  Martin  wantin'  to  report 
sick.  Then  he  steers  me  off  toward  the  bar 
racks,  circles  past'  em,  and  leads  me  through  a 
back  gate. 

"I  think  we've  put  it  over,  old  man,"  says 
he,  givin'  me  the  cordial  grip.  "I  can't  tell 
you  what  a  good  turn  you've  done  me." 

"It's  fifty-fifty,"  says  I.  "Where  do  I  hit 
a  station?" 


268         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOUCHY 

"You  take  this  trolley  that's  coming,"  says 
he.  "That  junk  you  have  on  you  can  send 
back  to-morrow,  in  my  care.  And  I — I  trust 
you'll  find  things  all  right  at  home." 

"Thanks,"  says  I.  "Hope  you'll  have  the 
same  luck  yourself  some  day." 

"Oh,  perhaps,"  says  he,  shakin'  his  head 
doubtful.  "If  I  ever  get  back.  But  not  until 
I'm  past  thirty,  anyway." 

"Why  so  late!"  asks  I. 

"What  would  get  my  goat,"  says  he,  "would 
be  the  risk  of  breakin'  into  the  grandfather 
class  before  I  got  ready." 

"Gee!"  I  gasps.  "I  hadn't  thought  of 
that." 

So,  with  this  new  idea,  and  the  cheerin' 
views  Barnes  had  pumped  into  me,  I  has  plenty 
to  chew  over  durin'  the  next  hour  or  so  that 
I'm  speedin'  towards  home.  I  expect  that  ac 
counts  some  for  the  long  face  I  must  have 
been  wearin'  when  I  finally  dashes  through 
the  front  gate  of  the  Lilacs  and  am  let 
into  the  house  by  Leon  Battou,  the  little 
old  Frenchman  who  cooks  and  buttles  for 
us. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu!"  says  Leon,  thro  win'  up 
his  hands  and  starin'  at  me  bug-eyed.  "Mon 
sieur  ! ' ' 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY         269 

"Go  on,"  says  I.  "Tell  me  the  worst. 
What  is  it!" 

"But  no,  M'sieur,"  says  he.  "It  is  only  that 
M'sieur  appears  in  so  strange  attire." 

"Oh!  These?"  says  I.  "Never  mind  my 
costume,  Leon.  What  about  Vee?" 

"Ah!"  says  he,  his  eyes  beamin'  once  more 
and  his  hands  washin'  each  Bother.  "Madame 
is  excellent.  She  herself  will  tell  you.  Come ! ' ' 

Upstairs  I  went,  two  steps  at  a  time. 

"S-s-sh!"  says  the  nurse,  meetin'  me  at  the 
door. 

But  I  brushes  past  her,  and  the  next  minute 
I'm  over  by  the  bed  and  Vee  is  smilin'  up  at 
me.  It's  only  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  but  it 
means  a  lot  to  me.  She  slips  one  of  her  hands 
into  mine. 

"Torchy,"  she  whispers,  "did  you  drop 
down  out  of — of  the  air?" 

"That  was  about  it,"  says  I.  "I  got  here, 
though.  Are  you  all  right,  girlie?" 

She  nods  and  gives  me  another  of  them 
sketchy,  happy  smiles. 

"And  how  about  the — the "  I  starts  to 

ask. 

She  glances  towards  the  corner  where  the 
nurse  is  bendin'  over  a  pink  and  white  basket. 
"He's  splendid,"  she  whispers. 


270         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"He?"  says  I.     "Then— then  it's  a  boy!" 

She  gives  'my  hand  a  little  squeeze. 

And  ten  minutes  later,  when  I'm  shooed  out, 
I'm  feelin'  so  chesty  and  happy  that  I'm 
tingly  all  over. 

Down  in  the  livin'-room  Leon  is  waitin'  for 
me,  wearin'  a  broad  grin.  He  greets  me  with 
his  hand  out.  And  then,  somehow,  because 
he's  so  different,  I  expect,  I  remembers  Barnes. 
I  was  wonderin'  if  Leon  was  just  puttin'  on. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "how  about  it?" 

"Ah,  Monsieur!"  says  he,  givin'  me  the 
hearty  grip.  "I  make,  to  you  my  best  con 
gratulations." 

"Then  you  don't  feel,"  says  I,  "that  bein' 
a  parent  is  kind  of  a  sad  and  solemn 
business?" 

"Sad!"  says  he.  "Non,  non!  It  is  the 
grand  joy  of  life.  It  is  when  you  have  the 
best  right  to  be  proud  and  glad,  for  to  you 
has  come  la  bonne  chance.  Yes,  la  bonne 
chance!" 

And  say,  there's  no  mistakin'  that  Leon 
means  every  word  of  it,  French  and  all. 

"Thanks,  Leon,"  says  I.  "You  ought  to 
know.  You've  been  through  it  yourself.  I'll 
bet  you  wouldn't  even  feel  bad  at  being  a  grand 
father.  No?  Well,  I  guess  I'll  follow  through 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY         271 

on  that  line.  Maybe  I  don't  deserve  so  much 
luck,  but  I'm  takin'  it  just  as  though  I  did. 
And  say,  Leon,  let's  us  go  out  in  the  back  yard 
and  give  three  cheers  for  the  son  and  heir  of 
the  house  of  Torchy." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

TOEOHY  GETS  THE  THUMB  GBIP 

I  EXPECT  a  lot  of  people  thought  it  about  me ; 
but  the  one  who  really  registered  the  idea  was 
Auntie.  Trust  her.  For  of  course,  with  an 
event  of  this  kind  staged  in  the  house  we 
couldn't  expect  to  dodge  a  visit  from  the  old 
girl.  She  came  clear  up  from  Miami — although, 
with  so  much  trouble  about  through  sleepers 
and  everything,  I  kept  tellin'  Vee  I  was  afraid 
she  wouldn't  think  it  worth  while  makin'  the 
trip. 

"How  absurd,  Torchy!"  says  Vee.  "Not 
want  to  see  baby?  To  be  sure,  she  will." 

You  see,  Vee  had  the  right  hunch  from  the 
very  first — about  the  importance  of  this  new 
member  of  the  fam'ly,  I  mean.  She  took  it  as 
a  matter  of  course  that  everybody  who'd  ever 
known  or  heard  of  us  would  be  anxious  to  rush 
in  and  gaze  awe-struck  and  reverent  at  this 
remarkable  addition  we'd  made  to  the  popula 
tion  of  Long  Island.  Something  like  that.  She 
don't  have  to  work  up  to  it.  Seems  to  come 

272 


TORCHY  GETS  THE  THUMB  GRIP     273 

natural.  Why,  say,  she'd  sit  by  and  listen 
without  crackin'  a  smile  to  these  regular  gush 
ers  who  laid  it  on  so  thick  you'd  'most  thought 
the  youngster  himself  would  have  turned  over 
and  run  his  tongue  out  at  'em. 

"Oh,  the  dear,  darling  'ittle  cherub!"  they'd 
squeal.  " Isn't  he  simp-ly  the  most  won-der- 
ful  baby  you  ev-er  saw?" 

And  Vee  would  never  blink  an  eye.  In  fact, 
she'd  beam  on  'em  grateful,  and  repeat  to  me 
afterwards  what  they'd  said,  like  it  was  just 
a  case  of  the  vote  bein'  made  unanimous,  as 
she  knew  it  was  bound  to  be  all  along. 

Which  wasn't  a  bit  like  any  of  the  forty- 
seven  varieties  of  Vee  I  thought  I  was  so  well 
acquainted  with.  No.  I'll  admit  she'd  shown 
whims  and  queer  streaks  now  and  then,  and 
maybe  a  fault  or  so ;  but  nothing  that  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  any  tendency  of  the  ego  to 
stick  its  elbows  out.  Yet,  when  it  comes  to 
listenin'  to  flatterin'  remarks  about  our  son 
and  heir — well,  no  Broadway  star  readin'  over 
what  his  press-agent  had  smuggled  into  the 
dramatic  notes  had  anything  on  her.  She 
couldn't  have  it  handed  to  her  too  strong. 

As  for  me,  I  guess  I  was  in  sort  of  a  daze 
there  for  a  week  or  so.  Gettin'  to  be  a  parent 
had  been  sprung  on  me  so  sudden  that  it  was 


274         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

sort  of  confusin'.  I  couldn't  let  on  to  be  a 
judge  of  babies  myself.  I  don't  know  as  I'd 
ever  examined  one  real  near  to  before,  any 
way — not  such  a  new  one  as  this. 

And,  between  me  and  you,  when  I  did  get  a 
chance  to  size  him  up  real  close  once, — they'd 
all  gone  out  of  the  room  and  left  me  standin' 
by  the  crib, — I  was  kind  of  disappointed.  Uh- 
huh.  No  use  kiddin'  yourself.  I  couldn't  see 
a  thing  wonderful  about  him,  or  where  he  was 
much  different  from  others  I'd  glanced  at  cas 
ual.  Such  a  small  party  to  have  so  much  fuss 
made  over!  Why,  one  of  his  hands  wasn't 
much  bigger 'n  a  cat's  paw.  And  his  face  was 
so  red  and  little  and  the  nose  so  sketchy  that 
it  didn't  seem  likely  he'd  ever  amount  to 
much.  Here  he'd  had  more'n  a  week  to  grow 
in,  and  I  couldn't  notice  any  change  at  all. 

Not  that  I  was  nutty  enough  to  report  any 
such  thoughts.  Hardly.  I  felt  kind  of  guilty 
at  just  havin'  'em  in  my  head.  How  was  it, 
I  asked  myself,  that  I  couldn't  stand  around 
with  my  hands  clasped  and  my  eyes  dimmed 
up,  as  a  perfectly  good  parent  should  when 
he  gazes  at  his  first  and  only  chee-ild?  Wasn't 
I  human? 

All  the  alibi  I  can  put  up  is  that  I  wasn't 
used  to  bein'  a  father.  Ain't  there  something 


TOECHY  GETS  THE  THUMB  GRIP     275 

in  that?  Just  think,  now.  Why,  I'd  hardly 
got  used  to  bein'  married.  Here,  only  a  little 
over  a  year  ago,  I  was  floatin'  around  free  and 
careless.  And  then,  first  thing  I  know,  with 
out  any  special  coachin'  in  the  act,  I  finds  my 
self  pushed  out  into  the  center  of  the  stage 
with  the  spot-light  on  me,  and  I'm  introduced 
as  a  daddy. 

The  only  thing  I  could  do  was  try  to  make 
a  noise  like  one.  I  didn't  feel  it,  any  more'n 
I  felt  like  a  stained-glass  saint  in  a  church 
window.  And  I  didn't  know  the  lines  very 
well.  But  there  was  everybody  watching, — 
Vee,  and  the  nurse,  and  Madame  Battou,  and 
occasional  callers, — so  I  proceeds  to  bluff  it 
through  the  best  I  could. 

My  merry  little  idea  was  to  be  familiar  with 
the  youngster,  treat  him  as  if  he'd  been  a  mem 
ber  of  the  fam'ly  for  a  long  time,  and  hide 
any  embarrassin'  feelin's  I  might  have  by  ad- 
dressin'  him  loud  and  joshin'.  I  expect  it  was 
kind  of  a  poor  performance,  at  that.  But  I 
seemed  to  be  gettin'  away  with  it,  so  I  stuck 
to  that  line.  Vee  appears  to  take  it  all  right, 
and,  as  nobody  else  gave  me  the  call,  I  almost 
got  to  believe  it  was  the  real  thing  myself. 

So  this  particular  afternoon,  when  I  came 
breezin'  in  from  town,  I  chases  right  up  to 


276          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

the  nursery,  where  I  knew  I'd  find  Vee,  gives 
her  the  usual  hail  just  behind  the  ear,  and  then 
turns  hasty  to  the  crib  to  show  I  haven't  for 
got  who's  there. 

''Hello,  old  sport!"  says  I,  ticklin'  him  in 
the  ribs.  "How  you  hittin'  'em,  hey?  Well, 
well!  Look  at  the  fistses  doubled  up!  Who 
you  goin'  to  hand  a  wallop  to  now?  Oh,  try- 
in*  to  punch  yourself  in  the  eye,  are  you? 
Come  there,  you  young  rough-houser,  lay  off 
that  grouchy  stuff  and  speak  some  kind  words 
to  your  daddy.  You  won't,  eh?  Goin'  to  kick 
a  little  with  the  footsies.  That's  it.  Mix  in 
with  all  fours,  you  young " 

And  just  then  I  hears  a  suppressed  snort 
that  sounds  sort  of  familiar.  I  glances  around 
panicky,  and  gets  the  full  benefit  of  a  disgusted 
glare  from  a  set  of  chilled  steel  eyes,  and  dis 
covers  that  there's  someone  besides  Vee  and 
the  nurse  present.  Yep.  It's  Auntie. 

"May  I  ask,"  says  she,  "if  this  is  your 
usual  manner  of  greeting  your  offspring!" 

"Why,"  says  I,  "I— I  expect  it  is." 

"Humph!"  says  she.  "I  might  have 
known. ' ' 

"Now,  Auntie,"  protests  Vee,  "you  know 
very  well  that  Torchy  means 

"Whatever   he   means    or    doesn't    mean," 


TOECHY  GETS  THE  THUMB  GEIP     277 

breaks  in  Auntie,  "I  am  sure  he  has  an  aston 
ishing  way  of  showing  parental  affection.  Call 
ing  the  child  an  'old  scout,'  a  'young  rough- 
houser'i  It's  shocking." 

"Sorry,"  says  I;  "but  I  ain't  taken  any 
lessons  in  polite  baby  talk  yet.  Maybe  in  time 
I  could  learn  this  ittums-tweetums  stuff,  but  I 
doubt  it.  Always  made  me  sick,  that  did;  and 
one  of  the  things  Vee  and  I  agreed  on  was 
that " 

"Oh,  very  well,"  says  Auntie.  "I  do  not 
intend  to  interfere  in  any  way." 

As  if  she  could  help  it!  Why,  say,  she'd 
give  St.  Peter  advice  on  gate-keepin'.  But  for 
the  time  bein',  each  of  us  havin'  had  our  say, 
we  calls  it  a  draw  and  gets  back  to  what  looks 
like  a  peace  footin'.  But  from  then  on  I  knew 
she  had  her  eyes  out  at  me.  Every  move  I 
made  was  liable  to  get  her  breathin'  short  or 
set  her  squirmin'  in  her  chair.  And  you  know 
how  it's  apt  to  be  in  a  case  like  that.  I  made 
more  breaks  than  ever.  I'd  forget  about  the 
youngster  bein'  asleep  and  cut  loose  with  some 
thing  noisy  at  the  wrong  time.  Or  I'd  jolt  her 
some  other  way. 

But  she  held  in  until,  one  night  after  dinner, 
when  the  baby  had  indulged  in  too  much  day 
sleepin'  and  was  carryin'  on  a  bit,  I  takes  a 


278         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

notion  to  soothe  him  with  a  few  humorous 
antics  while  Auntie  is  safe  downstairs.  You 
see,  I'd  never  been  able  to  get  him  to  take  any 
notice  of  me  before;  but  this  time,  after  I'd 
done  a  swell  imitation  of  a  Fred  Stone  dance, 
I  had  him  cooin'  approving  the  nurse  smother- 
in  '  a  smile,  and  Vee  snickerin'. 

Naturally,  I  has  to  follow  it  up  with  some 
thing  else.  I  was  down  on  my  hands  and 
knees  doin'  a  buckin'  bronco  act  across  the 
floor,  when  there  comes  this  gasp  from  the 
doorway.  It  seems  Auntie  was  passin'  by,  and 
peeked  in.  Her  eyebrows  go  up,  her  mouth 
corners  come  down,  and  she  stiffens  like  she'd 
grabbed  a  high-voltage  feed  wire.  I  saw  it 
comin',  but  the  best  I  can  do  is  steady  myself 
on  my  fingers  and  toes  and  wish  I  had  cotton 
in  my  ears. 

" Really!"  says  she.  "Are  you  never  to 
realize,  young  man,  that  you  are  now  supposed 
to  be  a  husband  and  a  father!" 

And,  before  I  can  shoot  back  a  word,  she's 
sailed  on,  her  chin  in  the  air  and  her  mouth 
about  as  smilin'  as  a  crack  in  a  vinegar  bottle. 
But  she'd  said  it.  She'd  pushed  it  home,  too. 
And  the  worst  of  it  was,  I  couldn't  deny  that 
she  had  the  goods  on  me.  I  might  pass  as  a 
husband,  if  you  didn't  expect  too  much.  But 


pq   „ 


TORCHY  GETS  THE  THUMB  GRIP     279 

as  for  the  rest — well,  I  knew  I  wasn't  meetin' 
the  specifications. 

The  only  model  I  could  think  of  was  them 
fond  parent  groups  you  see  in  the  movie  close- 
ups — mother  on  the  right,  father  at  the  left, 
and  Little  Bright  Eyes  squeezed  in  between 
and  bein'  mauled  affectionate.  Had  we  ever 
indulged  in  any  such  family  clinch?  Not  up 
to  date.  Why?  Was  it  because  I  was  a  fail 
ure  as  a  daddy?  Looked  so.  And  here  was 
Auntie  taxin'  me  with  it.  Would  other  folks 
find  out,  too? 

I  begun  thinkin'  over  the  way  different  ones 
had  taken  the  news.  Old  Hickory,  for  instance. 
I  was  wearin'  a  wide  grin  and  still  feelin'  sort 
of  chesty  when  I  broke  into  his  private  office 
and  handed  him  the  bulletin. 

"Eh?"  he  grunts,  squintin'  at  me  from 
under  them  bushy  eyebrows.  "A  father! 
You?  Good  Lord!" 

"Why  not?"  says  I.  "It's  still  being  done, 
ain't  it?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so.  Yes,  yes,"  he  goes  on, 
starin'  at  me.  "But  somehow,  young  man,  I 
can  hardly  think  of  you  as — as Well,  con 
gratulations,  Tlorchy.  You  have  frequently 
surprised  me  by  rising  to  the  occasion.  Per 
haps  you  will  in  this  also." 


280         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Ellins,"  says  I.  "It's  nice 
of  you  to  cheer  me  up  that  way." 

Piddle,  of  course,  said  the  right  and  elegant 
think,  just  as  if  he'd  learned  it  out  of  a  book. 
He  always  does,  you  know.  Makes  a  reg'lar 
little  speech,  and  finishes  by  givin'  me  the 
fraternal  handclasp  and  a  pat  on  the  shoulder. 

But  a  minute  after  I  caught  him  gazin'  at 
me  wonderin',  and  he  goes  off  shakin'  his 
head. 

Then  I  runs  across  my  newspaper  friend 
Whitey  Weeks,  who  used  to  know  me  when  I 
was  a  cub  office-boy  on  the  Sunday  editor's 
door. 

"Well,  Torchy,"  says  he,  "what  you  got  on 
your  mind?"  ' 

"Nothing  you  could  make  copy  out  of,"  says 
I,  "but  it's  a  whale  of  an  event  for  me." 

"You  don't  say,"  says  he.  "Somebody  died 
and  left  you  the  business?" 

"Just  the  opposite,"  says  I. 

"I  don't  get  you,"  says  he. 

"Ah,  what's  usually  in  the  next  column?" 
says  I.  "It's  a  case  of  somebody  bein'  born." 

"Why — why,"  says  he,  openin'  his  mouth, 
"you  don't  mean  that " 

"Uh-huh,"  says  I,  tryin'  to  look  modest. 

"Haw-haw!"  roars  Whitey,  usin'  the  steam 


TORCHY  GETS  THE  THUMB  GRIP     281 

siren  effect.  And,  as  it's  right  on  the  corner 
of  Forty-second  and  Broadway,  he  comes  near 
collectin'  a  crowd.  Four  or  five  people  turn 
around  to  see  what  the  merriment  is  all  about, 
and  a  couple  of  'em  stops  short  in  their  tracks. 
One  guy  I  spotted  for  a  vaudeville  artist  look- 
in'  for  stuff  that  might  fat  up  his  act. 

"Say,"  Whitey  goes  on,  poundin'  me  on  the 
back  jovial,  " that's  rich,  that  is!" 

' 'Glad  it  amuses  you,"  says  I,  startin'  to 
move  off. 

' 'Oh,  come,  old  chap!"  says  he,  followin' 
along.  "Don't  get  crabby.  What — what  is  it, 
anyway!" 

"It's  a  baby,"  says  I.  "Quite  a  young  one. 
Now  go  laugh  your  fat  head  off,  you  human 
hyena." 

With  that  shot  I  dashes  through  the  traffic 
and  catches  a  downtown  car,  leavin'  him  there 
with  his  silly  face  unhinged.  And  I  did  no 
more  announcin'  to  anybody.  I  was  through 
advertisin'.  When  some  of  the  commuters  on 
the  eight-three  heard  the  news  and  started 
springin'  their  comic  tricks  on  me,  I  pretended 
I  didn't  understand. 

I  don't  know  what  they  thought.  I  didn't 
give  a  whoop,  either.  I  wasn't  demandin'  that 
anybody  should  pass  solemn  resolutions  thank- 


282         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

in'  me  for  what  I'd  done  for  my  country,  or 
stand  with  their  hats  off  as  I  went  by.  But  I 
was  overstocked  on  this  joke-book  junk. 

Maybe  I  didn't  look  like  a  father,  or  act 
like  one;  but  I  was  doin'  my  best  on  the  short 
notice  I'd  had. 

I  will  say  for  Vee  that  she  stood  by  me 
noble.  She  seemed  to  think  whatever  I  did 
was  all  right,  even  when  I  shied  at  holdin'  the 
youngster  for  the  first  time. 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  bend  him  in  the  wrong 
place,"  I  protests. 

"Goose!"  says  she.    "Of  course  you  won't." 

"Suppose  I  should  drop  him?"  says  I. 

"You  can't  if  you  take  him  just  as  I  show 
you,"  she  goes  on  patient.  "Now,  sit  down 
in  that  chair.  Crook  your  left  arm  like  this. 
Now  hold  your  knees  together,  and  we'll  just 

put  the  little  precious  right  in  your There ! 

Why,  you're  doing  it  splendidly." 

"Am  I?"  says  I. 

I  might  have  believed  her  if  I  hadn't  caught 
a  glimpse  of  myself  in  the  glass.  Say,  I  was 
sittin'  there  as  easy  and  graceful  as  if  I'd  been 
made  of  structural  iron  and  reinforced  con 
crete.  Stiff!  Them  stone  lions  in  front  of  the 
Public  Lib'ry  was  frolicsome  lambs  compared 
to  me.  And  I  was  wearin'  the  same  happy 


TORCHY  GETS  THE  THUMB  GRIP     283 

look  on  my  face  as  if  I  was  havin'  a  tooth 
plugged. 

Course  that  had  to  be  just  the  time  when  Mr. 
Robert  Ellins  happened  in  for  his  first  private 
view.  Mrs.  Robert  had  towed  him  down  spe 
cial.  He's  a  reg'lar  friend,  though,  Mr.  Rob 
ert  is.  I  can't  say  how  much  of  a  struggle  he 
had  to  keep  his  face  straight,  but  after  the 
first  spasm  has  worn  off  he  don't  show  any 
more  signs  of  wantin'  to  cackle.  And  he  don't 
pull  any  end-man  stuff. 

"Well,  well,  Torohy!"  says  he.  "A  son  and 
heir,  eh?  I  salute  you." 

1  'Same  to  you  and  many  of  'em,"  says  I, 
grinnin'  simple. 

It  was  the  first  thing  that  came  into  my 
head,  but  I  guess  I'd  better  not  have  let  it  out. 
Mrs.  Robert  pinks  up,  Vee  snickers,  and  they 
both  hurries  into  the  next  room. 

"  Thank  you,  Torchy,"  says  Mr.  Robert. 
"  Within  certain  limitations,  I  trust  your  wish 
comes  true.  But  I  say — how  does  it  feel,  being 
a  father?" 

"  Just  plain  foolish,"  says  I. 

"Eh?"  says  he. 

" Honest,  Mr.  Robert,"  says  I,  "I  never  felt 
so  much  like  a  ham  sandwich  at  a  Chamber  of 
Commerce  banquet  as  I  do  right  now.  I'm 


284         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

beginnin'  to  suspect  I've  been  miscast  for  the 
part. ' ' 

"Nonsense!"  says  he  soothin'.  "You  ap 
pear  to  be  getting  along  swimmingly.  I'm  sure 
I  wouldn't  know  how  to  hold  a  baby  at 
all." 

"You  couldn't  know  less'n  I  do  about  it  at 
present  writing,"  says  I.  "I  don't  dare  move, 
and  both  my  legs  are  asleep  from  the  knees 
down.  Do  me  a  favor  and  call  for  help,  won't 
you?" 

"Oh,  I  say!"  he  calls  out.  "The  starboard 
watch  wants  to  be  relieved." 

So  Vee  comes  back  and  pries  the  baby  out 
of  my  grip. 

"Isn't  he  absurd!"  says  she.  "But  he  will 
soon  learn.  All  men  are  like  that  at  first,  I 
suppose." 

"Hear  that,  Mr.  Robert?"  says  I.  "That's 
what  I  call  a  sun-cured  disposition." 

She'd  make  a  good  animal-trainer,  Vee; 
she's  so  persistent  and  patient.  After  dinner 
she  jollies  me  into  tryin'  it  again. 

"You  needn't  sit  so  rigid,  you  know,"  she 
coaches  me.  "Just  relax  naturally  and  let  his 
little  head  rest  easy  in  the  hollow  of  your  arm. 
No,  you  don't  have  to  grab  him  with  the  other 
hand.  Let  him  kick  his  legs  if  he  wants  to. 


TORCHY  GETS  THE  THUMB  GRIP     285 

See,  he  is  looking  up  at  you!  Yes,  I  believe 
he  is.  Do  you  see  Daddy?  Do  you,  precious?" 

4 'Must  be  some  sight,"  I  murmurs.  "What 
am  I  supposed  to  do  now?" 

"Oh,  you  may  rock  him  gently,  if  you  like," 
says  Vee.  "And  I  don't  suppose  he'd  mind 
if  you  sang  a  bit." 

"Wouldn't  that  be  takin'  a  mean  advan 
tage?"  says  I. 

Vee  laughs  and  goes  off  so  I  can  practice 
alone,  which  was  thoughtful  of  her. 

I  didn't  find  it  so  bad  this  time.  I  dis 
covers  I  can  wiggle  my  toes  occasionally  with 
out  lettin'  him  crash  on  to  the  floor.  And  I 
begun  to  get  used  to  lookin'  at  him  at  close 
range,  too.  His  nose  don't  seem  quite  so  hope 
less  as  it  did.  I  shouldn't  wonder  but  what 
he'd  grow  a  reg'lar  nose  there  in  time.  And 
their  little  ears  are  cute,  ain't  they?  But  say, 
it  was  them  big  blue  eyes  that  got  me  inter 
ested.  First  off  they  sort  of  wandered  around 
the  room  aimless;  but  after  a  while  they 
steadies  down  into  gazin'  at  me  sort  of  curi 
ous  and  admirin'.  I  rather  liked  that. 

"How  about  it,  Snookums?"  says  I.  "What 
do  you  think  of  your  amateur  daddy!  Or  are 
you  wonderin'  if  your  hair '11  be  as  red  as 
mine?  Don't  you  care.  There's  worse  things 


286          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

in  life  than  bein'  bright  on  top.  Eh?  Think 
you'd  like  to  get  your  fingers  in  it?  Might 
burny-burn.  Well,  try  it  once,  if  you  like." 
And  I  ducks  my  head  so  he  can  reach  that 
wavin'  forelock  of  mine. 

"  Googly-goo ! "  remarks  Sonny,  indicatin' 
'most  anything  you're  a  mind  to  call  it. 

Anyway,  he  seems  to  be  entertained.  We 
was  gettin'  acquainted  fast.  Pretty  soon  he 
pulls  a  smile  on  me.  Say,  it's  the  real  thing 
in  the  smile  line,  too — confidential  and  chummy. 
I  has  to  smile  back. 

1 1  That 's  the  trick,  Buster ! ' '  says  I.  ' '  Friendly 
face  motions  is  what  wins." 

"  Goo-oogly-goo ! "  says  he. 

1 1 True  words!"  says  I.    "I  believe  you." 

We  must  have  kept  that  up  for  near  half 
an  hour,  until  he  shows  signs  of  gettin'  sleepy. 
Just  before  he  drops  off,  though,  he  was  wav 
in'  one  of  his  hands  around,  and  the  first  thing 
I  know  them  soft  little  pink  fingers  has  circled 
about  my  thumb. 

Say,  that  turned  the  trick — just  that.  Ever 
had  a  baby  grip  you  that  way?  Your  own,  I 
mean?  If  you  have,  I  expect  you'll  know  what 
I'm  drivin'  at.  And  if  you  ain't — well,  you 
got  something  comin'  to  you.  It's  a  thing  I 
couldn't  tell  you  about.  It's  a  gentle  sort  of 


TOECHY  GETS  THE  THUMB  GRIP     287 

thrill,  that  spreads  and  spreads  until  it  gets 
'way  inside  of  you — under  your  vest,  on  the 
left  side. 

When  Vee  finally  comes  in  to  see  how  we're 
gettin'  along,  he's  snoozin'  calm  and  peaceful, 
with  a  sketchy  smile  kind  of  flickerin'  on  and 
off  that  rosebud  mouth  of  his,  like  he  was 
indulgin'  in  pleasant  dreams.  Also,  them  little 
pink  fingers  was  still  wrapped  around  my 
thumb. 

"Well,  if  you  aren't  a  picture,  you  two!" 
says  Vee,  bendin'  over  and  whisperin'  in  my 
ear. 

"This  ain't  a  pose,"  says  I.  "It's  the  real 
thing." 

"You  mean "  begins  Vee. 

"I  mean  I've  qualified,"  says  I.  "Maybe  I 
didn't  show  up  so  strong  durin'  the  initiation, 
but  I  squeaked  through.  I'm  a  reg'lar  daddy 
now.  See!  He's  givin'  me  the  inside  brother 
grip — on  my  thumb.  You  can  call  Auntie  in, 
if  you  like." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  LOW   TACKLE   BY   TORCHY 

WHAT  I  like  about  livin'  out  in  the  forty- 
minute-if -you 're-lucky  sector  is  that,  once  you 
get  here,  it's  so  nice  and  quiet.  You  don't 
have  to  worry,  when  you  turn  in  at  night, 
about  manhole  covers  bein'  blown  through 
your  front  windows,  or  whether  the  basement 
floor  will  drop  into  the  subway,  or  if  some 
gun  gang  is  going  to  use  your  street  for  a 
shootin'  gallery.  All  you  do  is  douse  the  lights 
and  feel  sure  nothin's  going  to  happen  until 
breakfast. 

We  were  talkin'  something  along  this  line 
the  other  evenin',  Vee  and  me,  sayin'  how  rest 
ful  and  soothin'  these  spring  nights  in  the 
country  was — you  know,  sort  of  handin'  it  to 
ourselves.  And  it  couldn't  have  been  more'n 
two  hours  later  that  I'm  routed  rude  out  of  the 
downy  by  the  'phone  bell.  It's  buzzin'  away 
frantic.  I  scrambles  out  and  fits  the  receiver 
to  my  ear  just  in  time  to  get  the  full  benefit 
of  the  last  half  of  a  long  ring. 

288 


A  LOW  TACKLE  BY  TORCHY  289 

uAh,  take  your  thumb  off,"  I  sings  out  to 
the  night  operator.  "Who  you  think  you're 
callin' — the  fire  house  or  some  doctor?" 

"Here's  your  party,"  I  hears  her  remark 
cheerful,  and  then  this  other  voice  comes  in. 

Well,  it's  Norton  Plummer,  that  fussy  little 
lawyer  neighbor  of  ours  who  lives  about  half 
a  mile  the  other  side  of  the  railroad.  Since 
he's  been  made  chairman  of  the  local  Council 
of  Defense  and  put  me  on  as  head  of  one  of  his 
committees,  he's  rung  me  up  frequent,  gener 
ally  at  dinner-time,  to  ask  if  I  have  anything 
to  report.  Seems  to  think,  just  because  I'm 
a  reserve  lieutenant  on  special  detail,  that  I 
ought  to  be  discoverin'  spies  and  diggin'  out 
plots  every  few  minutes. 

"Yes,  yes,"  says  I.  "This  is  me.  What 
then?" 

"Did  you  read  about  that  German  naval 
officer  who  escaped  from  an  internment  camp 
last  week?"  he  asks. 

"But  that  was  'way  down  in  North  Caro 
lina  or  somewhere,  wasn't  it?"  says  I. 

"Perhaps,"  says  Plummer.  "But  he  isn't 
there  now.  He's  here." 

"Eh?"  says  I.    "Where?" 

"Prowling  around  my  house,"  says  Plum 
mer.  "That  is,  he  was  a  few  moments  ago. 


290          THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

My  chauffeur  saw  him.  So  did  I.  He's  on 
his  way  down  towards  the  trolley  line  now." 

"Why  didn't  you  nab  him?"  I  asks. 

"Me?"  says  Plummer.  "Why,  he's  a  huge 
fellow,  and  no  doubt  a  desperate  man.  I 
presume  he  was  after  me:  I  don't  know." 

"But  how'd  you  come  to  spot  him  as  a  Hun 
officer?"  says  I. 

"By  the  description  I  read,"  says  he.  "It 
fits  perfectly.  There's  no  telling  what  he's  up 
to  around  here.  And  listen :  I  have  telephoned 
to  the  Secret  Service  headquarters  in  town  for 
them  to  send  some  men  out  in  a  machine.  But 
they'll  be  nearly  an  hour  on  the  road,  at  best. 
Meanwhile,  what  we  must  do  is  to  prevent  him 
from  catching  that  last  trolley  car,  which  goes 
in  about  twelve-fifteen.  We  must  stop  him, 
you  see." 

"Oh,  must  we?"  says  I.  "Listens  to  me  like 
some  he-sized  job." 

"That's  why  I  called  you  up,"  says  Plum 
mer.  "You  know  where  the  line  crosses  the 
railroad?  Well,  he'll  probably  try  to  get  on 
there.  Hurry  down  and  prevent  him." 

1 '  Is  that  all  I  have  to  do  I "  say s  I.  "  What 's 
the  scheme — do  I  trip  him  up  and  sit  on  his 
head?" 

"No,  no!"  says  Plummer.    "Don't  attempt 


violence.  He's  a  powerful  man.  Why,  my 
chauffeur  saw  him  break  the  chain  on  our  back 
gate  as  if  it  had  been  nothing  but  twine.  Just 
gave  it  a  push — and  snap  it  went.  Oh,  he's 
strong  as  a  bull.  Ill-tempered,  too." 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "And  I'm  to  go  down 

and Say,  where  do  you  come  in  on 

this!" 

"I'll  be  there  with  John  just  as  soon  as  we 
can  quiet  Mrs.  Plummer  and  the  maids,"  says 
he.  "They're  almost  in  hysterics.  In  the 
meantime,  though,  if  you  could  get  there 

and Well,  use  strategy  of  some  kind. 

Anything  to  keep  him  from  catching  that  car. 
You  understand!" 

"I  get  you,"  says  I.  "And  it  don't  sound 
enticin'  at  all.  But  I'll  see  what  I  can  do.  If 
you  find  me  smeared  all  over  the  road,  though, 
you'll  know  I  didn't  pull  it  off.  Also,  I'd 
suggest  that  you  make  that  soothin'  act  of 
yours  speedy." 

Course  this  wakes  Vee  up,  and  she  wants  to 
know  what  it's  all  about. 

"Oh,  a  little  private  panic  that  Norton 
Plummer  is  indulgin'  in,"  says  I.  "Nothin' 
to  get  fidgety  over.  I'll  be  back  soon." 

"But — but  you  won't  be  reckless,  will  you,. 
Torchy?"  she  asks. 


292          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Who,  me?"  says  I.  "How  foolish.  Why, 
I  invented  that  ' Safety  First'  motto,  and  side- 
steppin'  trouble  is  the  easiest  thing  I  do. 
Trust  me." 

I  expect  she  was  some  nervous,  at  that. 
But  she's  a  good  sport,  Vee. 

"If  you're  needed,"  says  she,  "of  course  I 
want  you  to  go.  But  do  be  careful." 

I  didn't  need  any  coaxin'.  Somehow,  I 
never  could  get  used  to  roamin'  around  in  the 
country  after  dark.  Always  seemed  sort  of 
spooky.  Bein'  brought  up  in  the  city,  I  expect, 
where  the  scenery  is  illuminated  constant,  ac 
counts  for  that.  So,  as  I  slips  out  the  front 
gate  and  down  towards  the  station,  I  keeps 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  glances  sus 
picious  at  the  tree  shadows. 

Not  that  I  was  takin'  Plummer's  Hun  scare 
real  serious.  He'd  had  a  bad  case  of  spy 
fever  recent.  Why,  only  last  week  he  got  all 
stirred  up  over  what  he  announced  was  a 
private  wireless  outfit  that  he'd  discovered 
somewhere  in  the  outskirts  of  Flushing;  and 
when  they  came  to  trail  it  down  it  turns  out  to 
be  some  new  wire  clothes-line  strung  up  back 
of  a  flat  buildin'. 

Besides,  what  would  an  escaped  German 
naval  officer  be  doin'  up  this  way?  He'd  be 


A  LOW  TACKLE  BY  TORCHY     293 

more  apt  to  strike  for  Mexico,  wouldn't  he? 
Still,  long  as  I'd  let  Plummer  put  me  on  the 
committee,  it  was  up  to  me  to  answer  any 
calls.  Might  be  entertainin'  to  see  who  he'd 
mistaken  for  an  enemy  alien  this  time.  And 
if  all  I  was  expected  to  do  was  spill  a  little 
impromptu  strategy — well,  maybe  I  could,  and 
then  again  maybe  I  couldn't.  I'd  take  a  look, 
anyway. 

It  was  seem'  a  light  in  Danny  Shea's  little 
cottage,  back  on  a  side  lane,  that  gave  me  my 
original  hunch.  Danny  is  one  of  the  impor 
tant  officials  of  the  Long  Island  Railroad,  if 
you  let  him  tell  it.  He's  the  flagman  down 
where  the  highway  and  trolley  line  cross  the 
tracks  at  grade,  and  when  his  rheumatism  ain't 
makin'  him  grouchy  he's  more  or  less  amusin' 
to  chin  with. 

Danny  had  pestered  the  section  boss  until 
he'd  got  him  to  build  a  little  square  coop  for 
him,  there  by  the  crossin' — a  place  where  he 
could  crawl  in  between  trains,  smoke  his  pipe, 
and  toast  himself  over  a  sheet-iron  stove  about 
as  big  as  a  picnic  coffee-pot. 

And  that  sentry-box  effect  was  the  pride 
of  Danny's  heart.  Most  of  his  spare  time  and 
all  the  money  he  could  bone  out  of  the  com 
muters  he  spent  in  improvin'  and  decora  tin' 


294         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

it.  He'd  cut  a  couple  of  round  windows,  like 
port-holes,  and  fitted  'em  with  swing-in'  sashes. 
Then  he'd  tacked  on  some  flower-boxes  under 
neath  and  filled  'em  with  geraniums. 

When  he  wasn't  waterin'  his  flowers  or  coax- 
in'  along  his  little  grass-plot  or  addin'  another 
shelf  inside,  he  was  paintin'  the  outside.  Dan 
ny's  idea  of  a  swell  color  scheme  seemed  to 
be  to  get  on  as  many  different  shades  as  pos 
sible.  The  roof  was  red,  the  sides  a  bright 
blue.  But  where  he  spread  himself  was  on 
the  trim.  All  you  had  to  do  to  get  on  the 
right  side  of  Danny  was  to  lug  him  out  a  half- 
pound  can  of  paint  different  from  any  he'd 
applied  so  far.  He'd  use  it  somehow. 

So  the  window-sashes  was  picked  out  in  yel 
low,  the  side  battens  loomed  up  prominent  as 
black  lines,  and  the  door-panels  was  a  pale  pink. 
Nearly  all  the  commuters  had  been  touched  by 
Danny  for  something  or  other  that  could  be 
added  to  the  shack.  Only  a  week  or  so  before, 
I'd  got  in  strong  with  him  by  contributin'  a 
new  padlock  for  the  door — a  vivid  red  one, 
like  they  have  on  the  village  jail  in  vaudeville 
plays. 

And  it  struck  me  now  that  if  I  had  the  key 
to  that  little  box  of  Danny's  it  would  ma£e  a 
perfectly  good  listenin'-post  for  any  midnight 


A  LOW  TACKLE  BY  TORCHY  295 

sleuthin'  I  had  to  do.  Most  likely  he  was  up 
dosin'  himself  or  bathin'  his  joints. 

Well,  he  was.  He  didn't  seem  any  too  en 
thusiastic  about  lettin'  me  have  the  key,  though. 

"I  dunno,"  says  he.  " 'Tis  railroad  prop 
erty,  y'  understand,  and  I'd  be  afther  riskin' 
me  job  if  any  thin'  should " 


i  i 


'I  know,  Danny,"  says  I.  ''But  you  tell 
'em  it  was  commandeered  by  the  U.  S.  Army, 
which  is  me;  and  if  that  don't  square  you  I'll 
have  Mr.  Baker  come  on  and  tell  the  section 
boss  where  he  gets  off." 

"Verra  well,"  says  Danny.  And  in  less  than 
five  minutes  more  I'm  down  there  at  the  cross- 
in',  all  snug  and  cozy,  peekin'  out  of  them 
round  windows  into  No  Man's  Land. 

For  a  while  it  was  kind  of  excitin';  but  after 
that  it  got  sort  of  monotonous.  There  was 
about  half  of  an  old  moon  in  the  sky,  and 
only  a  few  clouds,  so  you  could  see  fairly 
well — if  there 'd  been  anything  to  see.  But 
nothing  seemed  to  be  stirrin',  up  or  down  the 
road. 

What  a  nut  that  Norton  Plummer  was,  any 
way,  feedin'  me  up  with  his  wild  tales  in  the 
middle  of  the  night!  And  why  didn't  he  show 
up?  Finally  I  got  restless,  and  walked  out 
where  I  could  rubber  up  the  trolley  track. 


296         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOUCHY 

No  sign  or  sound  of  a  car.  Then  I  looks  at 
my  watch  again,  and  figures  out  it  ain't  due 
for  twenty  minutes  or  so.  Next  I  strolls  across 
the  railroad  to  look  for  Plummer.  And,  just 
as  I'm  passin'  a  big  maple  tree,  out  steps  this 
huge  party  with  the  whiskers.  I  nearly  jumped 
out  of  my  puttees. 

I  'Eh?"  says  I  gaspy. 

II  Gotta  match?"  says  he. 
"I — I  guess  so,"  says  I. 

I  reached  as  far  as  I  could  when  I  hands 
him  the  box,  too.  He's  a  whale  of  a  man,  tall 
and  bulky.  And  his  whiskers  are  the  bristly 
kind — straw-colored,  I  should  say.  He's  wear- 
in'  a  double-breasted  blue  coat  and  a  sort  of 
yachtin'  cap.  Uh-huh!  Plummer  must  have 
been  right.  If  this  gink  wasn't  a  Hun  naval 
officer,  then  what  was  he?  The  ayes  had  it. 

He  produces  a  pipe  and  starts  to  light  up. 
One  match  broke,  the  second  had  no  strikin' 
head  on  it,  the  third  just  fizzed. 

"Gr-r-r-r!"  says  he. 

Then  he  starts  for  the  crossin',  me  trailin' 
along.  I  saw  he  had  his  eye  on  Danny's 
sentry-box,  meanin'  to  get  in  the  lee  of  it. 
Even  then  I  didn't  have  any  bright  little  idea. 

"Waitin'  for  the  trolley?"  I  throws  out. 

"What  of  it?"  he  growls. 


A  LOW  TACKLE  BY  TOECHY  297 

"Oh,  no  offense,"  says  I  hasty.  "Maybe 
there  are  others." 

He  just  lets  out  another  grunt,  and  tries  one 
more  match  with  his  face  up  against  the  side 
of  the  shanty.  And  then,  all  in  a  jump,  my 
bean  got  into  gear. 

"You  might  have  better  luck  inside,"  says 
I,  swingin'  open  the  door  invitin'. 

He  don't  even  say  thank  you.  He  ain't  one 
of  that  kind.  For  a  second  or  so  I  thought 
he  wasn't  goin'  to  take  any  notice;  but  after 
one  more  failure  he  steps  around,  inspects  the 
inside  of  the  shanty,  and  then  squeezes  him 
self  through  the  door.  At  that,  he  wasn't  all 
the  way  in,  but  by  the  time  he  had  a  match 
goin'  I'd  got  my  nerve  back. 

"Ah,  take  the  limit,  Cap'n,"  says  I. 

With  that  I  plants  one  foot  impulsive  right 
where  he  was  widest,  gives  a  quick  shove, 
slams  the  door  shut  behind  him,  and  snaps  the 
big  padlock  through  the  hasp. 

"Hey!"  he  sings  out  startled.  "What 
the " 

"Now,  don't  get  messy,  Cap'n,"  says  I. 
"You're  in,  ain't  you1?  Smoke  up  and  be 
happy." 

"You — you  loafer!"  he  gurgles  throaty. 
"What  do  you  mean!" 


298         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Just  a  playful  little  prank,  Cap,"  says  I. 
"Don't  get  excited.  You're  perfectly  safe." 

Maybe  he  was.  But  some  folks  don't  appre 
ciate  little  attentions  like  that.  The  Cap'n 
starts  in  bumpin'  and  thrashin'  violent  in 
there,  like  a  pup  that's  crawled  into  a  drain 
pipe  and  got  himself  stuck.  He  hammers  on 
the  walls  with  his  fists,  throws  his  weight 
against  the  door,  and  tries  to  kick  his  way  out. 

But  the  section  boss  must  have  used  rail 
spikes  and  reinforced  the  studdin'  with  fish 
plates  when  he  built  that  coop  for  Danny,  or 
else  the  big  Hun  was  too  tight  a  fit  to  get  full 
play  for  his  strength.  Anyway,  all  he  did  was 
make  the  little  house  rock  until  you'd  thought 
Long  Island  was  enjoyin'  a  young  earthquake. 
Meanwhile  I  stands  by,  ready  to  do  a  sprint 
if  he  should  break  loose,  and  offers  more  or 
less  cheerin'  advice. 

"Easy  with  your  elbows  in  there,  Cap,"  says 
I.  "You're  assaultin'  railroad  property,  you 
know,  and  if  you  do  any  damage  you  can  be 
pinched  for  malicious  mischief." 

"You — you  better  let  me  out  of  here  quick!" 
he  roars.  "I  gotta  get  back." 

"Oh,  you'll  get  to  town  all  right,"  says  I. 
"I'll  promise  you  that." 

"Loafer!"  he  snorts. 


A  LOW  TACKLE  BY  TORCHY  299 

"Say,  how  do  you  know  I  ain't  sensitive  on 
that  point?"  says  I.  "You  might  hurt  my 
feelin's." 

"Gr-r-r!"  says  he.  "I  would  wring  your 
neck. ' ' 

"Such  a  disposition!"  says  I. 

Oh,  yes,  we  swapped  quite  a  little  repartee, 
me  and  the  Cap'n,  or  whatever  he  was.  But, 
instead  of  his  bein'  soothed  by  it  he  gets  more 
strenuous  every  minute.  He  had  that  shack 
rockin'  like  a  boat. 

Next  thing  I  saw  was  one  of  his  big  feet 
stickin'  out  under  the  bottom  sill.  Then  I 
remembers  that  the  sentry-box  has  only  a 
dirt  floor — on  account  of  the  stove,  I  expect. 
Course  Danny  has  banked  the  outside  up  with 
sod  for  five  or  six  inches,  but  that  ain't  enough 
to  hold  it  down  with  a  human  tornado  cuttin' 
loose  inside.  A  minute  more  and  another  foot 
appears  on  the  other  side,  and  the  next  I  knew 
the  whole  shootin'  match  begins  to  rise,  wabbly 
but  sure,  until  he's  lifted  it  almost  to  his 
knees. 

Looked  like  the  Cap'n  was  goin'  to  shed  the 
coop  over  his  head,  as  you'd  shuck  a  shirt, 
and  I  was  edgin'  away  prepared  to  make  a 
run  for  it.  But  right  there  the  elevatin'  proc 
ess  stops,  and  after  some  violent  squirms  there 


300         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

comes  an  outburst  of  language  that  would 
only  get  the  delete  sign  if  I  should  give  it.  I 
could  dope  out  what  had  happened.  That 
plank  seat  across  one  side  had  caught  the 
Cap'n  about  where  he  buckles  his  belt,  and  he 
couldn't  budge  it  any  further. 

1  'Want  a  shoe-horn,  Cap'n?"  I  asks.  "Say, 
next  time  you  try  wearin'  a  kiosk  as  a  slip-on 
sweater  you'd  better  train  down  for  the  act." 

"Gr-r-r-r!"  says  he.  "I — I  will  teach  you 
to  play  your  jokes  on  me,  young  whipper- 
snap." 

He  does  some  more  writhin',  and  pretty 
soon  manages  to  swing  open  one  of  the  port 
holes.  With  his  face  up  to  that,  like  a  deep- 
sea  diver  peekin'  out  o'  his  copper  bonnet,  he 
starts  for  me,  kickin'  over  the  little  stove  as  he 
gets  under  way,  and  tearin'  the  whole  thing 
loose  from  the  foundation. 

Course  he's  some  handicapped  by  the  hobble- 
skirt  effect  around  his  knees,  and  the  weight 
above  his  shoulders  makes  him  a  bit  topheavy; 
but,  at  that,  he  can  get  over  the  ground  as 
fast  as  I  can  walk  backwards. 

Must  have  been  kind  of  a  weird  sight,  there 
in  the  moonlight — me  bein'  pursued  up  the  road 
by  this  shack  with  legs  under  it,  the  little  tin 
smoke-pipe  wavin'  jaunty  about  nine  feet  in 


A  LOW  TACKLE  BY  TORCHY   301 

the  air,  and  the  geraniums  in  the  flower-boxes 
noddin'  jerky. 

"Say,  what  do  you  think  you  are?"  I  calls 
out.  "A  wooden  tank  goin'  over  the  top!'7 

I  was  sort  of  wonderin'  how  long  he  could 
keep  this  up,  and  what  would  be  the  finish, 
when  from  behind  me  I  hears  this  spluttery 
line  of  exclamations  indicatin'  rage.  It's 
Danny,  who's  got  anxious  about  lettin'  me 
have  the  use  of  his  coop  and  has  come  down 
to  see  what's  happenin'  to  it.  Well,  he  saw. 

"Hey!     Stop  him,  stop  him!"  he  yells. 

"Stop  him  yourself,  Danny,"  says  I. 

"But  he's  runnin'  away  with  me  little  flag- 
house,  thief  of  the  worruld!"  howls  Danny. 
"It's  breakin'  and  enterin'  and  carryin'  away 
th'  property  of  the  Long  Island  Eailroad  that 
he's  guilty  of." 

"Yes;  I've  explained  all  that  to  him,"  says  I. 

"Go  back  and  come  out  of  that,  ye  thievin7 
Dutchman!"  orders  Danny,  rushin'  up  and 
bangin'  on  the  door  with  his  fists. 

"Just  let  me  out,  you  Irish  shrimp!"  snarls 
the  Cap'n. 

"Can't  be  done — not  yet,  Danny,"  says  I. 

"But — but  he's  destroyin'  me  flowers  and 
runnin'  off  with  me  little  house,"  protested 
Danny.  "I'll  have  the  law  on  him,  so  I  will." 


302          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 


out,  Irisher,  or  I'll  fall  on  you,"  warns 
the  Cap'n. 

And  right  in  the  midst  of  this  debate  I  sees 
Norton  Plummer  and  his  chauffeur  hurryin' 
up  from  across  the  tracks.  I  skips  back  to 
meet  'em. 

"Well,"  says  Plummer,  "have  you  seen  any 
thing  of  the  escaped  prisoner?" 

"That's  him,"  says  I,  pointin'  to  the  wab- 
blin'  shack. 

"Whaddye  mean?"  says  Plummer,  starin' 
puzzled. 

"He's  inside,"  says  I.  "You  said  use  strat 
egy,  didn't  you?  Well,  that's  the  best  I  had 
in  stock.  I  got  him  boxed,  all  right,  but  he 
won't  stay  put.  He  insists  on  playin'  the  hu 
man  turtle.  What  '11  we  do  with  him  now? 
Come  see." 

"My  word!"  says  Plummer,  as  he  gets  a 
view  of  the  Cap'n's  legs  and  the  big  whiskered 
face  at  the  little  window.  "So  there  you  are, 
eh,  you  runaway  Hun?" 

"Bah!"  says  the  Cap'n.  "Why  do  you  call 
me  Hun?" 

"Because  I've  identified  you  as  an  escaped 
German  naval  officer,"  says  Plummer.  "Do 
you  deny  it?" 

"Me?"  says  the  Cap'n.    "Bah!" 


"Who  do  you  claim  to  be,  then?"  says  I. 
"A  tourist  Eskimo  or  an  out-of-town  buyer 
from  Patagonia?" 

"I'm  Nels  Petersen,  that's  who  I  am,"  says 
he,  "and  I'm  chief  engineer  of  a  ferry-boat 
that's  due  to  make  her  first  run  at  five-thirty- 
three.  ' ' 

"What!"  says  Plummer.  "Are  you  the 
Swede  engineer  who  has  been  writing  love  let 
ters  to—  Say,  what  is  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Plummer 's  maid?" 

"Selma,"  says  the  Cap'n. 

"By  George!"  says  Plummer.  "I  believe 
the  man's  right.  But  see  here:  what  were  you 
doing  prowling  around  my  back  yard  to-night? 
Why  didn't  you  go  to  the  servants'  entrance 
and  ask  the  cook  for  Selma,  if  you're  as  much 
in  love  with  her  as  you've  written  that  you 
are?" 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  demands 
Petersen. 

"Good  Lord!"  gasps  Plummer.  "Haven't  I 
had  to  puzzle  out  all  those  wretched  scrawls 
of  yours  and  read  'em  to  her?  Such  mushy 
letters,  too!  Come,  if  you're  the  man,  why 
didn't  you  call  Selma  out  and  tell  her  all 
that  to  her  face?" 


304         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

Nothing  but  heavy  breathing  from  inside  the 
shack. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  were  too  bash 
ful?"  goes  on  Plummer.  "A  great  big  fellow 
like  you!" 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  whiskers  I  believe 
we  could  have  seen  him  blush. 

"Look  here,"  says  Plummer.  "You  may  be 
what  you  say  you  are,  and  then  again  you  may 
not.  Perhaps  you  just  guessed  at  the  girl's 
name.  We  can't  afford  to  take  any  chances. 
The  only  way  to  settle  it  is  to  send  for 
Selma." 

"No,  no!"  pleads  the  big  gink.  "Please! 
Not  like  this." 

"Yes,  just  like  that,"  insists  Plummer. 
"Only,  if  you'd  rather,  you  can  carry  your 
house  back  where  it  belongs  and  sit  down. 
John,  run  home  and  bring  Selma  here." 

Well,  we  had  our  man  nicely  tamed  now. 
With  Selma  liable  to  show  up,  he  was  ready  to 
do  as  he  was  told.  Just  why,  we  couldn't  make 
out.  Anyway,  he  hobbles  back  to  the  crossin' 
and  eases  the  shack  down  where  he  found  it. 
Also,  he  slumps  inside  on  the  bench  and  waits, 
durin'  which  proceedin'  the  last  trolley  goes 
boomin'  past. 

Inside  of  ten  minutes  John  is  back  with 


A  LOW  TACKLE  BY  TORCHY      305 

the  maid.  Kind  of  a  slim,  classy-lookin'  girl 
she  is,  too.  And  when  Selma  sees  that  big 
face  at  the  round  window  there's  no  doubt 
about  his  being  the  chosen  one. 

"Oh,  Nels,  Nels!"  she  wails  out.  "Vy  you 
don'd  coom  by  the  house  yet?" 

"I  was  scart,  Selma,"  says  Nels,  "for  fear 
you'd  tell  me  to  go  away." 

"But— but  I  don'd,  Nels,"  says  Selma. 

"Shall  I  let  him  out  for  the  fade-away 
scene?"  says  I. 

Plummer  nods.  And  we  had  to  turn  our 
backs  as  they  go  to  the  fond  clinch. 

Accordin'  to  Plummer,  Selma  had  been  wait- 
in'  for  Nels  to  say  the  word  for  more'n  a  year, 
and  for  the  last  two  months  she'd  been  so 
absent-minded  and  moody  that  she  hadn't  been 
of  much  use  around  the  house.  But  him  get- 
tin'  himself  boxed  up  as  an  escaped  Hun  had 
sort  of  broken  the  ice. 

"There,  now!"  says  Plummer.  "You  two 
go  back  to  the  house  and  talk  it  over.  You 
may  have  until  three-fifteen  to  settle  all  details, 
and  then  I'll  have  John  drive  Petersen  down 
to  his  ferry-boat.  Be  sure  and  fix  the  day, 
though.  I  don't  want  to  go  through  another 
night  like  this." 

"But  what  about  me  little  lawn,"  demands 


306         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

Danny,  "that's  tore  up  entirely!  And  who's 
to  mend  me  stove-pipe  and  all?" 

"Oh,  here's  something  that  will  cover  all 
that,  Danny,"  says  Plummer,  slippin'  him  a 
ten-spot.  "And  I've  no  doubt  Petersen  will 
contribute  something,  too." 

"Sure!"  says  Nels,  fishin'  in  his  pockets. 

"Two  bits!"  says  Danny,  pickin'  up  the 
quarter  scornful.  "Thim  Swedes  are  the  tight 
wads!  And  if  ever  I  find  this  wan  kidnap- 
pin'  me  little  house  again " 

At  which  Danny  breaks  off  and  shakes  his 
fist  menacin'. 

When  I  gets  back  home  I  tiptoes  upstairs; 
but  Vee  is  only  dozin',  and  wakes  up  with  a 
jump. 

"Is  that  you,  Torchy!"  says  she.  "Has 
—has  anything  dreadful  happened?" 

"Yes,"  says  I.  "I  had  to  pull  a  low  tackle, 
and  Danny  Shea's  declared  war  on  Sweden." 


CHAPTER  XVHI 

TAG  DAY  AT  TORCHY*S 

COUESE,  in  a  way,  it  was  our  fault,  I  expect. 
We  never  should  have  let  on  that  there  was 
any  hitch  about  what  we  was  goin'  to  name 
the  baby.  Blessed  if  I  know  now  just  how  it 
got  around.  I  remember  Vee  and  I  bavin'  one 
or  two  little  talks  on  the  subject,  but  I  don't 
think  we'd  tackled  the  proposition  real  serious. 

You  see,  at  first  we  were  too  busy  sort  of 
gettin'  used  to  bavin'  him  around  and  framin' 
up  a  line  on  this  parent  act  we  was  supposed 
to  put  over.  Anyway,  I  was.  And  for  three 
or  four  weeks,  there,  I  called  him  anything  that 
came  handy,  from  Young  Sport  to  Old  Snoodle- 
kins.  Vee  she  sticks  to  Baby.  Uh-huh — just 
plain  Baby.  But  the  way  she  says  it,  breath- 
in'  it  out  kind  of  soft  and  gentle,  sounded  per 
fectly  all  right  to  me. 

And  the  youngster  didn't  seem  to  have  any 
kick  comin'.  He  was  gettin'  so  he'd  look  up 
and  coo  real  intelligent  when  she  speaks  to  him 

307 


308         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

in  that  fashion.  You  couldn't  blame  him,  for 
it  was  easy  to  listen  to. 

As  for  the  different  things  I  called  him — 
well,  he  didn't  mind  them,  either.  No  matter 
what  it  was, — Old  Pink  Toes  or  Wiggle-heels, — 
he'd  generally  pass  it  off  with  a  smile,  provid- 
in'  he  wasn't  too  busy  with  his  bottle  or  tryin' 
to  get  hold  of  his  foot  with  both  of  his  hands. 

Then  one  day  Auntie,  who's  been  listenin' 
disapprovin'  all  the  while,  just  can't  hold  in 
any  longer. 

"Isn't  it  high  time,"  says  she,  "that  you 
addressed  the  child  properly  by  his  right 
name!" 

"Eh I"  says  I,  gawpin'.    "Which  one?" 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,"  she  goes  on,  "that 
you  have  not  yet  decided  on  his  baptismal 
name  ! ' ' 

"I  didn't  know  he  was  a  Baptist,"  says  I 
feeble. 

"We  hadn't  quite  settled  what  to  call  him," 
says  Vee. 

"Besides,"  I  adds,  "I  don't  see  the  use 
bein'  in  a  rush  about  it.  Maybe  were 're  savin' 
that  up." 

"Saving!"  says  Auntie.  "For  what  rea 
son!" 

"Oh,  general  conservation,"  says  I.    "Got 


TAG  DAY  AT  TORCH Y'S          309 

the  habit.  We've  had  heatless  Mondays  and 
wheatless  Wednesdays  and  f  ryless  Fridays  and 
sunless  Sundays,  so  why  not  nameless  babies?" 

Auntie  sniffs  and  goes  off  with  her  nose  in 
the  air,  as  she  always  does  whenever  I  spring 
any  of  my  punk  persiflage  on  her. 

But  then  Vee  takes  it  up,  and  says  Auntie  is 
right  and  that  we  really  ought  to  decide  on  a 
name  and  begin  using  it. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  says  I.  "I'll  be  thinking 
one  up." 

Seemed  simple  enough.  Course,  I'd  never 
named  any  babies  before,  but  I  had  an  idea  I 
could  dig  out  half  a  dozen  good,  serviceable 
monickers  between  then  and  dinner-time. 

Somehow,  though,  I  couldn't  seem  to  hit  on 
anything  that  I  was  willing  to  wish  on  to  the 
youngster  offhand.  When  I  got  right  up 
against  the  problem,  it  seemed  kind  of  serious. 

Why,  here  was  something  he'd  have  to  live 
with  all  his  life;  us,  too.  We'd  have  to  say 
it  over  maybe  a  hundred  times  a  day.  And 
if  he  grew  up  and  amounted  to  anything,  as 
we  was  sure  he  would,  it  would  mean  that  this 
front  name  of  his  that  I  had  to  pick  out  might 
be  displayed  more  or  less  prominent  It  would 
be  on  his  office  door,  on  his  letterheads,  on  his 
cards.  He'd  sign  it  to  checks. 


310          THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

Maybe  it  would  be  printed  in  the  news 
papers,  used  in  headlines,  or  painted  on  cam 
paign  banners.  Might  be  displayed  on  bill 
boards.  Who  could  tell? 

And  the  deeper  I  got  into  the  thing  the 
more  I  wabbled  about  from  one  name  to  an 
other,  until  I  wondered  how  people  had  the 
nerve  to  give  their  children  some  of  the  tags 
you  hear — Percy,  Isadore,  Lulu,  Reginald,  and 
so  on.  And  do  it  so  casual,  too.  Why,  I 
knew  of  a  couple  who  named  their  three 
girls  after  parlor-cars;  and  a  gink  in  Brook 
lyn  who  called  one  of  his  boys  Prospect, 
after  the  park.  Think  of  loadin'  a  help 
less  youngster  with  anything  freaky  like 
that! 

Besides,  how  were  you  going  to  know  that 
even  the  best  name  you  could  pick  wouldn't 
turn  out  to  be  a  misfit?  About  the  only  Percy 
I  ever  knew  in  real  life  was  a  great  two-fisted 
husk  who  was  foreman  of  a  stereotypin'  room; 
and  here  in  the  Corrugated  Building  if  you'll 
come  in  some  night  after  five,  I  can  show  you 
a  wide  built  scrub  lady,  with  hair  redder  'n 
mine  and  a  voice  like  a  huckster — her  front 
name  is  Violet.  Yet  I  expect,  when  them  two 
was  babies,  both  those  names  sounded  kind  of 
cute.  I  could  see  where  it  would  be  easy 


TAG  DAY  AT  TORCHY'S          311 

enough  for  me  to  make  a  mistake  that  it  would 
take  a  court  order  to  straighten  out. 

So,  when  Vee  asks  if  I've  made  any  choice 
yet  I  had  to  admit  that  I'm  worse  muddled 
up  on  the  subject  than  when  I  started  in.  All 
I  can  do  is  hand  over  a  list  I've  copied  down 
on  the  back  of  an  envelop  with  every  one  of 
'em  checked  off  as  no  good. 

" Let's  see,"  says  Vee,  glancin'  'em  over 
curious.  " Lester.  "Why,  I'm  sure  that  is  ra 
ther  a  nice  name  for  a  boy." 

"Yes,"  says  I;  "but  after  I  put  it  down  I 
remembered  a  Lester  I  knew  once.  He  was  a 
simp  that  wore  pink  neckties  and  used  to  write 
love-letters  to  Mary  Pickford." 

"What  about  Earl?"  she  asks. 

"Too  flossy,"  says  I.  "Sounds  like  you  was 
tryin'  to  let  on  he  belonged  to  the  aristoc 
racy." 

"Well,  Donald,  then,"  says  she.  "That's  a 
good,  sensible  name." 

"But  we  ain't  Scotch,"  I  objects. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Philip?  "  says  Vee. 

"I  can  never  remember  whether  it  has  one 
I  and  two  p's  or  the  other  way  round." 

"But  you  haven't  considered  any  of  the  com 
mon  ones,"  goes  on  Vee,  "such  as  John  or 
William  or  Thomas  or  James  or  Arthur." 


312         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

"Because  that  would  mean  he'd  be  called 
Bill  or  Tom  or  Art,"  says  I.  "Besides,  I 
kind  of  thought  he  ought  to  have  something 
out  of  the  usual  run — one  you  wouldn't  for 
get  as  soon  as  you  heard  it." 

"If  I  may  suggest,"  breaks  in  Auntie,  "the 
custom  of  giving  the  eldest  son  the  family 
name  of  his  mother  is  rather  a  good  one.  Had 
you  considered  Hemmingway?" 

I  just  gasps  and  glances  at  Vee.  What  if 
she  should  fall  for  anything  like  that!  Think 
of  smotherin'  a  baby  under  most  of  the  alpha 
bet  all  at  one  swoop!  And  imagine  a  boy 
strugglin'  through  schooldays  and  vacations 
with  all  that  tied  to  him. 

Hemmingway!  Why,  he'd  grow  up  round- 
shouldered  and  knock-kneed,  and  most  likely 
turn  out  to  be  a  floor-walker  in  the  white  goods 
department,  or  the  manager  of  a  gift-shop  tea 
room.  Hemmingway ! 

Just  the  thought  of  it  made  me  dizzy;  and 
I  begun  breathin'  easier  when  I  saw  Vee  shake 
her  head. 

"He's  such  a  little  fellow,  Auntie,"  says 
she.  "Wouldn't  that  be — well,  rather  top- 
heavy!" 

Which  disposes  of  Auntie.  She  admits 
maybe  it  would.  But  from  then  on,  as  the 


TAG  DAY  AT  TORCHY'S  313 

news  seems  to  spread  that  we  was  havin'  a 
kind  of  deadlock  with  the  namin'  process,  the 
volunteers  got  busy.  Old  Leon  Battou,  our 
butler-cook,  hinted  that  his  choice  would  be 
Emil. 

"For  six  generations,"  says  he,  "Emil  has 
been  the  name  of  the  first-born  son  in  our 
family. ' ' 

"That's  stickin'  to  tradition,"  says  I.  "It 
sounds  perfectly  swell,  too,  when  you  know 
how  to  pronounce  it.  But,  you  see,  we're 
foundin'  a  new  dynasty." 

Mr.  Robert  don't  say  so  outright,  but  he 
suggests  that  Ellins  Ballard  wouldn't  be  such 
a  bad  combination. 

"True,"  he  adds,  "the  governor  and  I  de 
serve  no  such  distinction;  but  I'm  sure  we 
would  both  be  immensely  flattered.  And  there 's 
no  telling  how  reckless  we  might  be  when  it 
come  to  presenting  christening  cups  and  that 
sort  of  thing." 

"That's  worth  rememberin ', "  says  I.  "And 
I  expect  you  wouldn't  mind,  in  case  you  had  a 
boy  to  name  later  on,  callin'  him  Torchy,  eh?" 

Mr.  Robert  grins.  "Entry  withdrawn," 
says  he. 

How  this  Amelia  Gaston  Leroy  got  the  call 
to  crash  in  on  our  little  family  affair,  though, 


314         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

I  couldn't  quite  dope  out.  We  never  suspected 
before  that  she  was  such  an  intimate  friend  of 
ours.  Course,  since  we'd  been  livin'  out  in 
the  Piping  Rock  section  we  had  seen  more  or 
less  of  her — more,  as  a  rule.  She  was  built 
that  way. 

Oh,  yes.  Amelia  was  one  of  the  kind  that 
could  bounce  in  among  three  or  four  people 
in  a  thirty  by  forty-five  living-room  and  make 
the  place  seem  crowded.  Mr.  Robert's  favor 
ite  description  of  her  was  that  one  half  of 
Amelia  didn't  know  how  the  other  half  lived. 
To  state  it  plain,  Amelia  was  some  whale  of 
a  girl.  One  look  at  her,  and  you  did  no 
more  guessin'  as  to  what  caused  the  food 
shortage. 

I  got  the  shock  of  my  life,  too,  when  they 
told  me  she  was  the  one  that  wrote  so  much  of 
this  mushy  magazine  poetry  you  see  printed. 
For  all  the  lady  poetesses  I'd  ever  seen  had 
been  thin,  shingled-chested  parties  with  mud- 
colored  hair  and  soulful  eyes. 

There  was  nothing  thin  about  Amelia.  Her 
eyes  might  have  been  soulful  enough  at  times, 
but  mostly  I'd  seen  'em  fixed  on  a  tray  of 
sandwiches  or  a  plate  of  layer  cake. 

They'd  had  her  up  at  the  Ellinses'  once  or 
twice  when  they  were  givin'  one  of  their  musi- 


TAG  DAY  AT  TORCHY'S          315 

cal  evenin's,  and  she'd  spouted  some  of  her 
stuff. 

Her  first  call  on  us,  though,  was  when  she 
blew  in  last  Sunday  afternoon  and  announced 
that  she'd  come  to  see  "that  dear,  darling  man 
child"  of  ours.  And  for  a  girl  of  her  size 
Amelia  is  some  breeze,  take  it  from  me.  Hon 
est,  for  the  first  ten  minutes  or  so  there  I  felt 
like  our  happy  little  home  had  been  hit  by  a 
young  tornado. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  demands.  "Please  take 
me  at  once  into  the  regal  presence  of  his  youth 
ful  majesty." 

I  noticed  Vee  sizin'  her  up  panicky,  and  I 
knew  she  was  thinkin'  of  what  might  happen 
to  them  spindle-legged  white  chairs  in  the 
nursery. 

"How  nice  of  you  to  want  to  see  him!"  says 
Vee.  "But  let  me  have  Baby  brought  down 
here.  Just  a  moment." 

And  she  steers  her  towards  a  solid  built 
davenport  that  we'd  been  meanin'  to  have  re- 
upholstered  anyway.  Then  we  was  treated  to 
a  line  of  high-brow  gush  as  Amelia  inspects 
the  youngster  through  her  shell  lorgnette  and 
tries  to  tell  us  in  impromptu  blank  verse  how 
wonderful  he  is. 

"Ah,  he  is  one  of  the  sun  children,  loved  of 


316         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

the  high  gods,"  says  she,  rollin'  her  eyes. 
"He  comes  to  you  wearing  the  tints  of  dawn 
and  trailing  clouds  of  glory.  You  remember 
how  Wordsworth  puts  it?" 

As  she  fires  this  straight  at  me,  I  has  to 
say  something. 

"Does  he?"  I  asks. 

"I  am  always  impressed,"  she  gurgles  on, 
"by  the  calm  serenity  in  the  eyes  of  these  lit 
tle  ones.  It  is  as  if  they " 

But  just  then  Snoodlekins  begins  screwin* 
up  his  face.  He's  never  been  mauled  around 
by  a  lady  poetess  before,  or  maybe  it  was  just 
because  there  was  so  much  of  her.  Anyway, 
he  tears  loose  with  a  fine  large  howl  and  the 
serenity  stuff  is  all  off.  It  takes  Vee  four  or 
five  minutes  to  soothe  him. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Leroy  gets  around  to  stat 
in'  the  real  reason  why  we're  bein'  honored. 

"I  understand,"  says  she,  "that  you  have 
not  as  yet  chosen  a  name  for  him.  So  I  am 
going  to  help  you.  I  adore  it.  I  have  always 
wanted  to  name  a  baby,  and  I've  never  been 
allowed.  Think  of  that!  My  brother  has  five 
children,  too ;  but  he  would  not  listen  to  any  of 
my  suggestions. 

"So  I  am  aunt  to  a  Walter  who  should  have 
been  called  Clifford,  and  a  Margaret  whom 


TAG  DAY  AT  TORCHY'S          317 

I  wanted  to  name  Beryl,  and  so  on.  Even  my 
laundress  preferred  to  select  names  for  her 
twins  from  some  she  had  seen  on  a  circus 
poster  rather  than  let  me  do  it  for  her. 

"But  I  am  sure  you  are  rational  young 
people,  and  recognize  that  I  have  some  natural 
talent  in  that  direction.  Names !  Why,  I  have 
made  a  study  of  them.  I  must,  you  see,  in  my 
writing.  And  this  dear  little  fellow  deserves 
something  fitting.  Now  let  me  see.  Ah,  I  have 
it!  He  shall  be  Cedric — after  Cedric  the  Red, 
you  know." 

Accordin'  to  her,  it  was  all  settled.  She 
heaves  herself  up  off  the  davenport,  straight 
ens  her  hat,  and  prepares  to  leave,  smilin' 
satisfied,  like  an  expert  who's  been  called  in 
and  has  finished  the  job. 

"We — we  will  consider  Cedric,"  says  Vee. 
"Thank  you  so  much." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  says  Amelia.  "Of  course, 
if  I  should  happen  to  think  of  anything  better 
within  the  next  few  days  I  will  let  you  know 
at  once."  And  out  she  floats. 

Vee  gazes  after  her  and  sighs. 

"I  suppose  Cedric  is  rather  a  good  name," 
says  she,  "but  somehow  I  don't  feel  like 
using  one  that  a  stranger  has  picked  out  for 
us.  Do  you,  Torchy?" 


318          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

" You've  said  it,"  says  I.  "I'd  sooner  let 
her  buy  my  neckties,  or  tell  me  how  I  should 
have  my  eggs  cooked  for  breakfast." 

'And  yet,"  says  Vee,  "unless  we  can  think 


t  i 


of  something  better ' 

"We  will,"  says  I.  "I'm  goin'  through 
them  pages  in  the  back  of  the  big  dictionary." 

In  less'n  half  an  hour  there's  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  here's  a  chauffeur  come  with  a  note 
from  Amelia.  On  the  way  home  she's  had 
another  hunch. 

"After  all,"  she  writes,  "Cedric  seems  ra 
ther  too  harsh,  too  rough-shod.  So  I  have 
decided  on  Lucian." 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "She's  decided,  has  she? 
Say,  whose  tag  day  is  this,  anyway — ours  or 
hers!" 

Vee  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  we  should  like  calling 
him  Lucian;  it's  so — so 

"I  know,"  says  I,  "so  perfectly  sweet.  Say, 
can't  we  block  Amelia  off  somehow?  Suppose 
I  send  back  word  that  a  rich  step-uncle  has 
promised  to  leave  him  a  ton  of  coal  if  we  call 
the  baby  Ebenezer  after  him?" 

Vee  chuckles. 

"Oh,  no  doubt  she'll  forget  all  about  it  by 
morning,"  says  she. 


TAG  DAY  AT  TORCHY'S  319 

Seems  we'd  just  begun  hearin'  from  the  out 
side  districts,  though,  or  else  they'd  been  sav 
in'  up  their  ideas  for  this  particular  afternoon 
and  evenin ' ;  for  between  then  and  nine  o  'clock 
no  less'n  half  a  dozen  different  parties  dropped 
in,  every  last  one  of  'em  with  a  name  to  regis 
ter.  And  their  contributions  ranged  all  the 
way  from  Aaron  to  Xury.  There  were  two 
rooters  for  Woodrow  and  one  for  Pershing. 

Some  of  the  neighbors  were  real  serious 
about  it.  They  told  us  what  a  time  they'd  had 
namin'  some  of  their  children,  brought  up  cases 
where  families  had  been  busted  up  over  such 
discussions,  and  showed  us  where  their  choice 
couldn't  be  beat.  One  merry  bunch  from  the 
Country  Club  thought  they  was  pullin'  some 
thing  mighty  humorous  when  they  stopped  in 
to  tell  us  how  they'd  held  a  votin'  contest  on 
the  subject,  and  that  the  winnin'  combination 
wras  Paul  Roger. 

" After  something  you  read  on  a  cork,  eh?" 
says  I.  "Much  obliged.  And  I  hope  nobody 
strained  his  intellect." 

"The  idea!"  says  Vee,  after  they've  rolled 
off.  "Voting  on  such  a  thing  at  a  club!  Just 
as  if  Baby  was  a  battleship,  or  a — a  new  mov 
ing-picture  place.  I  think  that's  perfectly 
horrid  of  them." 


320          THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

1  'It  was  fresh,  all  right,"  says  I.  "But  I 
expect  we  got  to  stand  for  such  guff  until  we 
can  give  out  that  we've  found  a  name  that 
suits  us.  Lemme  tackle  that  list  again.  Now, 
how  would  Eussell  do?  Russell  Ballard?  No; 
too  many  Z's  and  r's.  Here's  Chester.  And 
I  expect  the  boys  would  call  him  Chesty.  Then 
there's  Clyde.  But  there's  a  steamship  line 
by  that  name.  What  about  Stanley?  Oh,  yes; 
he  was  an  explorer." 

I  admit  I  was  .gettin'  desperate  about  then. 
I  was  flounderin'  around  in  a  whole  ocean  of 
names,  long  ones  and  short  ones,  fancy  and 
plain,  yet  I  couldn't  quite  make  up  my  mind. 
I'd  mussed  my  hair,  shed  my  collar,  and  scrib 
bled  over  sheets  and  sheets  of  paper,  without 
gettin'  anywhere  at  all.  And  when  I  gave  up 
and  turned  in  about  eleven-thirty,  my  head  was 
so  muddled  I  wouldn't  have  had  the  nerve  to 
have  named  a  pet  kitten. 

I  must  have  just  dozed  off  to  sleep  when  I 
hears  this  bell  ringin'  somewhere.  I  couldn't 
quite  make  out  whether  it  was  a  fire  alarm, 
or  the  z's  in  the  back  of  the  dictionary  go- 
in'  off,  when  Vee  calls  out  that  it's  the 
'phone. 

I  tumbles  out  and  paws  around  for  the  ex 
tension. 


TAG  DAY  AT  TOBCHY'S          321 

"Wha-what?"  says  I.  "What  the  blazes! 
Ye-uh.  This  is  me.  Wha-wha's  matter?" 

And  then  comes  this  gurgly  voice  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire.  It's  our  old  friend 
Amelia. 

"Do  you  know,"  says  she,  "I  have  just 
thought  of  the  loveliest  name  for  your  dear 
baby." 

"Oh,  have  you?"  says  I,  sort  of  crisp. 

"Yes,"  says  she,  "and  I  simply  couldn't 
wait  until  morning  to  tell  you.  Now  listen — 
it's  Ethelbert." 

"Ethel-Bert!"  says  I,  gaspy.  "Say,  you 
know  he's  no  mixed  foursome." 

"No,  no,"  says  she.  Ethelbert — one  name, 
after  the  old  Saxon  king.  Ethelbert  Ballard. 
Isn't  that  just  perfect?  And  I  am  so  glad  it 
came  to  me." 

I  couldn't  agree  with  her  real  enthusiastic, 
so  it's  lucky  she  hung  up  just  as  she  did. 

"Huh!"  I  remarks  to  Vee.  "Why  not 
Maryjim  or  Daisybill?  Say,  I  think  our 
friend  Amelia  must  have  gone  off  her 
hinge. ' ' 

But  Vee  only  yawns  and  advises  me  to  go  to 
sleep  and  forget  it.  Well,  I  tried.  You  know 
how  it  is,  though,  when  you've  been  jolted  out 
of  the  feathers  just  as  you're  halfway  through 


322         THE  HOUSE  OF  TOECHY 

the  first  reel  of  the  slumber  stuff.  I  couldn't 
get  back,  to  save  me. 

I  counted  sheep  jumpin'  over  a  wall,  I  tried 
lookin'  down  a  railroad  track  until  I  could 
seen  the  rails  meet,  and  I  spelled  Constanti 
nople  backwards.  Nothing  doing  in  the  Mor 
pheus  act. 

I  was  wider  awake  then  than  a  new  taxi 
driver  makin'  his  first  trip  up  Broadway.  I 
could  think  of  swell  names  for  seashore  cot 
tages,  for  new  surburban  additions,  and  for 
other  people's  babies.  I  invented  an  explo 
sive  pretzel  that  would  win  the  war.  I  thought 
of  bills  I  ought  to  pay  next  week  sure,  and  of 
what  I  meant  to  tell  the  laundryman  if  he  kept 
on  making  hash  of  my  pet  shirts. 

Then  I  got  to  wonderin'  about  this  old- 
maid  poetess.  Was  she  through  for  the  night, 
or  did  she  work  double  shifts?  If  she  wasn't 
any  nearer  sleep  than  I  was  she  might  think 
up  half  a  dozen  substitutes  for  Ethelbert  be 
fore  mornin'.  Would  she  insist  on  springin' 
each  one  on  me  as  they  hit  her? 

Maybe  she  was  gettin'  ready  to  call  me 
again  now.  Should  I  pretend  not  to  hear  and 
let  her  ring,  or  would  it  be  better  to  answer 
and  let  on  that  this  was  Police  Headquarters! 

Honest,  I   got   so   fidgety  waitin'   for   that 


TAG  DAY  AT  TORCHY'S          323 

buzzer  to  go  off  that  I  could  almost  hear  the 
night  operator  pluggin'  in  on  our  wire. 

And  then  a  thought  struck  me  that  wouldn't 
let  go.  So,  slippin'  out  easy  and  thro  win'  on 
a  bath-robe,  I  sneaked  downstairs  to  the  back 
hall  'phone,  turned  on  the  light,  and  hunted 
up  Miss  Leroy's  number  in  the  book. 

1 ' Give  her  a  good  strong  ring,  please,"  says 
I  to  Exchange,  ' '  and  keep  it  up  until  you  rouse 
somebody." 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  says  the  operator.  And 
in  a  minute  or  so  I  gets  this  throaty  "Hello!" 

"Miss  Leroy?"  says  I. 

"Yes,"  says  she.     "Who  is  calling?" 

"Ballard,"  says  I.  "I'm  the  fond  parent  of 
the  nameless  baby.  And  say,  do  you  still  stick 
to  Ethelbert?" 

"Why,"  says  she,  "I— er " 

"I  just  wanted  to  tell  you,"  I  goes  on, 
"that  this  guessin'  contest  closes  at  3  A.M.,  and 
if  you  want  to  make  any  more  entries  you  got 
only  forty  minutes  to  get  'em  in.  Nighty- 
night." 

And  I  rings  off  just  as  she  begins  sputterin' 
indignant. 

That  seems  to  help  a  lot,  and  inside  of  five 
minutes  I'm  snoozin'  peaceful. 

It  was  next  mornin'  at  breakfast  that  Vee 


324         THE  HOUSE  OF  TORCHY 

observes  offhand,  as  though  the  subject  hadn't 
been  mentioned  before : 

"About  naming  the  baby,  now." 

"Ye-e-es?"  says  I,  smotherin'  a  groan. 

"Why  couldn't  we  call  him  after  you!"  she 
asks. 

"Not — not  Richard  Junior?"  says  I. 

"Well,  after  both  of  us,  then,"  says  she. 
"Richard  Hemmingway.  It — it  is  what  I've 
wanted  to  name  him  all  along." 

"You  have?"  says  I.  "Well,  for  the  love 
of " 

"You  didn't  ask  me,  that's  why,"  says  she. 

"Why — why,  so  I  didn't,"  says  I.  "And 
say,  Vee,  I  don't  know  who's  got  a  better 
right.  As  for  my  part  of  the  name,  I've  used 
it  so  little  it's  almost  as  good  as  new.  Richard 
Hemmingway  Ballard  it  shall  be." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  says  she.  "Of  course, 
I  did  want  you  to  be  the  one  to  pick  it  out ;  but 

if  you're  satisfied  with " 

-"Satisfied!"  says  I.  "Why,  I'm  tickled  to 
pieces.  And  here  you  had  that  up  your  sleeve 
all  the  while!" 

Vee  smiles  and  nods. 

"We  must  have  the  christening  very  soon," 
.says  she,  "so  everyone  will  know." 

"You  bet!"  says  I.    "And  I've  a  good  no- 


TAG  DAY  AT  TORCH Y'S          325 

tion  to  put  it  on  the  train  bulletin  down  at  the 
station,  too.  First  off,  though,  we'd  better  tell 
young  Eichard  himself  and  see  how  he  likes  it. 
I  expect,  though,  unless  his  next  crop  of  hair 
comes  out  a  different  tint  from  this  one,  that 
he'll  have  to  answer  to  'Young  Torchy'  for  a 
good  many  years." 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  Vee;  ''but  I'm  sure  he 
won't  mind  that  in  the  least." 

"Good  girl!"  says  I,  movin'  round  where  I 
can  express  my  feelin's  better. 

"Don't!"  says  Vee.  "You'll  spill  the 
coffee." 


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